


Counting Stars

by adropofstarlight



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Actor Romano, Actress Belgium, Alternate Universe - Human, Eventual Romance, Journalist Spain, Lots of drama, M/M, Modern Setting, Older Romano, Slow Build, Some Humor, Some angst, Writer Spain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-04-19 05:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4734746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adropofstarlight/pseuds/adropofstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antonio, failed writer and journalist, thinks things are finally going his way when he lands an interview with actor Lovino Vargas. But it's only the start of a long line of problems... the biggest of which may be Vargas himself.</p><p>(Spamano, Human AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. square one

_You are not wrong, who deem_  
_That my days have been a dream;_  
_Yet if hope has flown away_  
_In a night, or in a day,_  
_In a vision, or in none,_  
_Is it therefore the less gone?_  
_All that we see or seem_  
_Is but a dream within a dream._

– _"A Dream Within a Dream," Edgar Allan Poe_

* * *

His nose was freezing. Covering it didn't help, since his gloved fingers were also freezing. And the coffee, he noted, had begun to follow suit, slowly but surely. Drinking it was now out of the question – he should have done that before leaving his flat, but it was already too late.

Antonio re-capped his thermos and set it aside, a safe distance from his laptop case. The window to his right had crusted over with a thin layer of ice. He rubbed at it and glanced out – but nothing met his eyes, only the dank grey walls of the tunnel they were passing through. After a brief and fruitless search for patterns in the stone, he gave up and turned away, not noticing how the ice regrew in the absence of his warmth.

He'd been lucky to get an actual seat today. The other ninety-nine percent of train passengers had squashed together in the center, an unpleasant medley of young and old, every face sporting some degree of fatigue and irritation.

Antonio knew he looked no different.

Ten minutes, and already he missed Francis and Gilbert. He knew he hadn't much right to complain; at any given time one of them was always running off on some assignment or other. But it was one thing to be tired and with company, another to be tired and alone in a car full of strangers he had no will to talk to. Surely Gilbert would've found  _something_ amusing in that pudgy scarf-wrapped man's death stare. And Francis – well, Francis would most certainly have suggested makeup to brighten everyone's faces.

Not that he'd actually do it, of course. Most of the time he was simply a man of words. They all were. It was what they did for a living.

Antonio fought down a yawn and opened his laptop, eyes smarting at the flash of the screen. No new assignments in his inbox – for now; it meant he'd have to conjure up story ideas later in the day. Mathias Kohler, editor-in-chief, could be kind on occasion when they weren't busy. But  _not busy_ had gone from Antonio's vocabulary five years ago, when he'd first thrown himself headlong into journalism.

Aimlessly he scrolled through his messages, thinking how sad it was that this mailbox could almost be a metaphor for his life – cluttered, overwhelmed, sometimes littered with meaningful junk. Here was a link from Francis, dated four months ago, to some strange video he hadn't watched, taking Gilbert's advice to protect his mind. There were Gilbert's pictures with a fat little poodle he'd met while traveling in the south (it had wanted to pose with him, obviously). Then invitations from a rival newspaper Antonio had turned down. Old assignments he'd traded with Gilbert and Francis. Even mail from his cousin-more-like-brother João, years ago, asking him if he wanted to meet up and talk about  _that_  –

Antonio stopped, finger stamping down hard on the mouse, but it was already too late.

Disappointment. Resentment. Frustration.

The same three emotions, every time he came upon those thirty messages, every time he was reminded in the slightest. Twenty hadn't been enough to bring him down; hadn't so many other authors been rejected too?

But ten more, and he'd sunk like a raft in a hurricane. HarperCollins, Macmillan, Simon and Schuster, all the names he knew by heart. All refusal, flat-out refusal. Even the smaller ones had said the same things. So many times.  _Too many times_.

The words were already ingrained in his memory.

_We're sorry, but we're currently busy and won't be able to represent your novel._

_I wish you_ _better success with another publisher_ _._

_Thank you for your patience, but your project does not fit our list at this time._

And the most blatantly crushing one, the most mind-numbing, something he should've known all along.

 _Sorry,_ _not for us._

Antonio had never liked failure. He despised it. But he'd never expected himself to fail, flagrantly, over and over and over again. He'd kept those messages for a reason – to remind himself, every now and then, just how fleeting success could be.

But seeing them now still brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

He shut his computer with a bang, shoved it away, and leaned against the cold shell of the train. If there was nothing productive he could do here, at least he could grab a few winks' worth of rest from the world.

* * *

It took almost as long to shake the snow off his coat as it did to climb the stairs.

When Antonio finally pushed open the door to the newsroom, he was greeted by the sounds of rapid typing, hurried phone calls and furious paper-ruffling. A newbie called Toris had overturned a stack, again. Copies of the Monday edition littered the floor, all covered with pictures Antonio recognized: Bella Peeters, the blushing young blonde who had starred in the latest horror movie, strolling casually down the street from her house; and actor Lovino Vargas, all dark hair and dark sunglasses, smile nonexistent, walking in the opposite direction with hands in the pockets of his designer jeans.  _VARGAS BREAKS UP WITH_ _PEETERS A FOURTH TIME_ , the headline read.

Across the room, Arthur Kirkland, managing editor of the  _Times_ , could be seen storming through his office doorway, humongous eyebrows haphazardly arranged. Antonio decided he had to move fast.

"Here, let me help," he whispered to Toris, and in one motion swept up a large portion of the scattered papers. Toris mouthed a fervent 'Thank you,' and by the time Arthur arrived both of them were safely installed in their respective chairs, typing away.

"Was that you I saw dropping things, Toris?" the editor barked, marching to the unfortunate man's desk and picking up a paper. Immediately he dropped it like he'd been burned. "What the hell is this?" he shouted, pointing at the cover indignantly. "You were supposed to print the Vargas article in the Entertainment section, not the  _front page_! That was  _all I asked_!"

"I'm sorry," whispered Toris, blowing his nose and standing. "I'll go reprint them right away."

Arthur snatched up the faulty newspapers with a sniff, then leveled a glare at Antonio. "And as for you – "

"Ah _, bonjour, mon_ _cher_ Arthur!" interrupted a honey-sweet voice, property of Francis Bonnefoy, only just returning to his desk with two steaming Styrofoam cups. "How are you today? I see the weather's dampened your spirits a bit... Here, allow me to treat you to a friendly cup of coffee,  _poured with love_  – "

"Excuse me!?" It seemed even Arthur wasn't immune to Francis' overwhelming French charm; he had promptly turned a precise shade of beet red. "No, I have plenty of  _tea_ with me, thank you very much, Francis! Now if you'll  _kindly_  get back to work before we break all the deadlines..."

Francis arrived beside Antonio, and watched with a smirk as the managing editor retired, flustered, to his office. "That man has the strangest mood swings,  _mon_ _Dieu_." He set down a cup in front of Antonio. "Still, it's cute, no?"

Antonio halfheartedly suppressed a snort and took a sip of coffee. "I don't think flirting with superiors is the best idea. But hey, thanks for saving me."

"Oh, it's nothing. You'd do the same for me anytime. And you may actually be right about that..." Francis had quieted and resumed his seat. Now they were two in a circle of desks all strewn with notes and folders and computer keyboards and telephones, though of course Francis' was the neatest, which was saying a lot. The Frenchman peered closely at him over his coffee cup. "You're really quiet today, Toni. What's up?"

"Nothing. Where's Gil?"

" _Dashing through the snow, on a one-horse open sleigh, o'er to_ _Vash's_ _place, laughing all the way_!" Francis chortled. "His exact words. A bit late for the holidays though. No, but really" – and here he leaned forward conspiratorially, voice lowering – "that man has some  _pretty_ strong views against gun control. Gil's going to have fun with this article, for sure."

A slight grin was all he received from Antonio, who had been drinking his coffee and warming his fingers simultaneously. "I would've liked that one too. Haven't visited Vash in ages." He gestured to the threatening-looking pile of manila folders by Francis' elbow. "Need any help with that?"

" _Non_ , it's fine. It's just all the info the company gave me – got a lucky break. But look at yours!"

Following his gaze, Antonio sighed inwardly. The first of the stack before him was a list of topics they'd covered in the past three weeks.

He scanned the narrow column of text. Last week Gilbert had followed the White House's New Year's celebration, Yao Wang a suspension at a local high school. And Elizabeta Hedervary had tracked down an elusive new author, who had published under a pseudonym two bestsellers –

That was where Antonio stopped reading.

* * *

"Whoever decided to make New York this cold must've been a sadist."

"You think so?" Antonio replied absently, shuffling through the snow. A great deal of it had enveloped the ground during the afternoon, a massive comforter draped over houses and shops and streets. Francis had stopped briefly to empty some snow from his shoe, and Antonio gave him a sidelong look. He seemed so at ease, so much in his element here, like the cold was simply another stranger that could never be part of him. Antonio almost envied him for it; for his part he felt stifled, the blood in him yearning for something warmer, warm and alive like home, like Spain...

"You're so out of it today, Antonio. What's going on?"

Antonio watched his breath puff out into the air, like smoke from a dying fire.

"Just tired."

It was true – he'd spent the entire day at the office, doing the same monotonous things he always did on his off days.

Brainstorming. Phone calls. Updating the news website. Making copies. His limbs ached from the cold and long hours of sitting. His head still hurt from the computer screen's glare. His fingers felt like deadweights – if only he had a pencil, and a notebook that wasn't full of notes tailored to Arthur's and Mathias' tastes, and a time and place to sit down and write, write without stopping, scream out his thoughts through words –

"Earth to Antonio?" Francis was waving at him, brows furrowed in concern. "All right, no more of these long silences. Tell me what it is."

Antonio stopped. "I just... need a break. I need a break," he repeated, tonelessly. Francis scrutinized him for a long moment, and then he sighed.

"Well, if that's what it is..." He grabbed Antonio's arm, pulling him forward. "We are going back home right now, I'm going to make amazing chicken  _cordon bleu_  for you, you'll go to sleep  _early_  tonight and wake up tomorrow all refreshed and ready for work. Okay?"

The words stuck in Antonio's throat and he could only nod, feeling suddenly, unbearably grateful. Together they trudged through the snow to the subway – one tall dark world-weary man and a somewhat shorter blond, making no sound in the muffled icy air.

"Sit," commanded Francis as soon as they returned, pushing Antonio to the couch near the heating vent. "And sleep a little if you need it. Dinner will be ready in half an hour."

"Wait – " Antonio tried to stand. "I forgot – today's my turn!"

Francis forced him to sit back down. "There will be no  _taking turns_  when you look like this,  _mon_ _ami_. Just rest."

Antonio relented and watched him enter the kitchen – the walled-off corner that served as a kitchen, anyway. The rest of their flat wasn't much – faded blue wallpaper, living room consisting of two battered couches around a squat wooden table. To the right was a partition, shielding their folding beds and desks from view; remnants of tinsel and colored lights still hung here and there, Francis' attempt to spruce things up for the holidays. They'd been talking of finding a new place since Christmas, as they had the money for that now, but so far their efforts had been unsuccessful.

The doorbell buzzed. Automatically Antonio rose as he heard the jingle of keys dropping, and a muttered curse; it was Gilbert who burst in, slamming the door behind him to keep out the draft.

"Holy hell, is it c-cold outside." At top speed he picked up his keys and jettisoned his snow-covered coat and bags, before collapsing, shivering, in Antonio's seat beside the heater. "Almost froze to death out there!"

"What happened to your scarf?" asked Antonio, hanging up the fallen coat and pulling a blanket off Gilbert's bed to cover him with. "I thought you were wearing it earlier."

"Gave it away." Gilbert grinned shakily, accepting a mug of hot cocoa from a reproachful Francis and warming his fingers around it. "Lil' tyke didn't have one. He needed it more than me."

Francis sighed and shook his head. "At least you didn't give away your coat, too."

"Aww, don't worry. Beilschmidts were made to be strong." Already Gilbert was reviving, his face having taken on a warmer glow. "Besides, I wouldn't miss that interview with Vargas for a million dollars."

"Vargas?" Antonio asked languidly from beside him, listening to the sound of Francis cooking. "He was in the papers today."

"Of course – he's gonna make headlines later this week, too. Did you know he and Bella Peeters are the lead roles in that movie coming out soon?"

"No way. They just broke up yesterday!"

"That's where the irony comes in. Their characters are supposed to fall in love! Can't wait to hear what Vargas has to say about  _that_."

"Sounds like fun," murmured Antonio, slowly dozing off against Gilbert's shoulder. "Tell me about it when you get back. When is it?"

"The day after tomorrow. Wednesday."

"Great."

And Antonio fell asleep.

* * *

"Oh,  _shit_."

"Gil?" Antonio rolled over and squinted at his friend's silhouette in the bed to his right. "What's –  _mierda_ , you look terrible!"

"I know," rasped Gilbert. "Something's wrong with my throat. Hurts to talk."

Antonio rushed over to feel his friend's forehead. " _Dios_ _mio_ , you're burning! Francis, can you get up for a minute? Where'd you put the meds?"

The Frenchman shot up and shoved off his blankets. " _Quoi_?  _Oui_ _, attend_  – I mean, yeah! Wait up – " He ran to the kitchen, returning moments later with a small plastic bottle, and stopped to stare at Gilbert. " _Putain_ _,_ _t'es_ _vraiment_ _malade_ _..._ "

Gilbert covered his eyes and groaned. "How'm I going to work tomorrow – " He broke off with a cough. Antonio and Francis exchanged heavy glances.

"You can't go anywhere like this, Gil," said Antonio finally. "You need to rest. Francis and I could call Mathias for you."

"...Fine." Gilbert tossed over his phone, downed some Tylenol, and lay back down. "Tell him my other shit's on its way."

"Of course."

"I doubt he'll be up at this hour. Ah well, but it's urgent anyway," muttered Francis, already dialing the Editor-in-Chief's number. "Hello? Oh, hey – Mathias, you  _are_ awake! Sorry for the late call, but..." He glanced at their resting friend. "Gilbert's sick, caught cold yesterday when he was going to Vash's. He might not be able to make it to the Vargas interview..."

"Let me talk," Gilbert rasped again, taking the phone. "Mathias?" He winced. "I'm really sorry about that. I've done everything else... Thanks so much. I'll be back as soon as I can." He paused to listen. "... Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks again – bye."

Francis and Antonio watched expectantly as he hung up. Gilbert leaned back and gave them a tired grin.

"Well, I'm off the hook now. Antonio, you're on."

* * *

Away from the noisy newsroom, away from the tiny flat he shared with his friends, away from New York City itself where he felt so small and unnoticed, Antonio supposed he should feel free. After all, here he was on an airplane, high as could be, so far removed from the busy meaninglessness of his daily life.

But it didn't feel like escape; it was just another duty.

He stared out the window, a habit of commuting that he still couldn't shake. Outside all was grey, grey and impenetrable. A wall of clouds, still just as stifling as the subway tunnels. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stop thinking. It would do no good to show up at the interview looking like a trapped animal – that never made a good impression.

At length he turned to his laptop for a distraction. He'd made sure to look up the actor in the few hours before his flight, and Google, it seemed, was particularly friendly to the name.

Lovino Vargas, from what he could see, was the  _don't give a damn_ kind of celebrity. Twenty-eight, son of Italian immigrants, eight-figure salary and worldwide fame for his roles in a dozen big movies. Apparently he had the outspokenness to go with it, too, not to mention his strange fancy for fleeting relationships with other actors and actresses. Bella Peeters had broken records for having spent the most time with him – but they had parted for the fourth time in a year after Vargas learned she'd kept a ring from an old flame, a Belgian singer.

"It was just a disappointment to me," was all Vargas had said on the matter, according to a rival newspaper's article. There was even a picture of him: windblown brown hair, disdainful dark eyes, elegantly carved mouth turned down at the corners. All radiating the utmost boredom.

And somehow they'd still be starring together in  _Before Sunrise_. The reason why Antonio was flying over this very minute.

It took him a long moment to realize he didn't really care.

* * *

He did love Beverly Hills, though. Sprawling mansions and perfect lawns and streets so neatly paved they must've come straight out of a picture book – even the skies were a blue rarely seen in New York. And how could it possibly be this warm in the middle of winter? But the air wasn't thick, wasn't oppressively hot; the wind was gentle on Antonio's skin, with a subtle flowery scent, making him want to sit down with a notebook and immortalize it all.

It felt just as unreal walking up to the Vargas residence. He had to make sure every step landed squarely on the narrow stone path, far enough away from the grass, every blade identical in height and color. Before him loomed the grand house he didn't dare stare at for too long, with high doors of shining wood and pristine white paint and elegant balconies and window-panes golden in the afternoon sun.

According to Mathias, the only reason Vargas had agreed to receive him here was that he didn't want anyone spying on him. Antonio thought he could guess who that might be.

Reaching the polished front door, he rang the doorbell and waited, holding his breath. No answer. He rang again, adjusting the collar of his jacket, which had grown a little warm, and made sure his journalist's implements were still safe in his pockets – one for the notepad, a second for the pens, a third for his phone. His press card hung heavily around his neck.

Suddenly two voices started up, some distance behind the door.

"Mr. Vargas! Mr. Vargas!" Echoing, hurried footsteps. "You don't need to answer – it might be – "

"No, no, it's fine! I want to see for myself."

And the door swung open.

High, bright, energetic – that had been his voice. And here, undoubtedly, was Vargas himself, all smiles and sunshine, from his welcoming air to his upturned mouth. Behind him, off to the side, was an older uniformed man – a butler.

"Oh, you must be the journalist!" The actor stuck out his hand in a surprisingly friendly manner. "Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, correct?"

"Yes." Antonio recovered just in time to paste on a smile and shake Vargas' hand. It was soft like a child's, but his grip was firm. No ornaments on his fingers, no rings. Antonio made sure not to hold on too long. "It's a real pleasure to meet you!"

Vargas flashed another improbably dazzling smile. "No, no, the pleasure's all mine! Come in, come in. You must've had a hard time getting here from New York!"

"Not at all." Secretly Antonio was marveling at the man's cheerfulness – he certainly hadn't looked this happy in any of the pictures Antonio had seen. But maybe that was just his way in public.

Antonio's thoughts took a new turn as he followed Vargas into the living room.

This one room itself had to be bigger than his entire flat. Off-white walls, adorned everywhere with framed paintings and photographs. A jeweled chandelier hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the light from the spacious windows. Directly below it, with a vase of roses at the center, stood a glass table bordered by two large leather couches. This was where Vargas led him. Antonio obeyed when he was offered a seat, mind whirling.

"So what is it that you'd like to know about?" The actor opposite him appeared perfectly at ease,  _interested_  even, eyes so open and guileless Antonio had trouble believing it was really him. "Ask away, I'll answer!"

"Well," Antonio began, "everyone's been so excited to hear you'll be starring in  _Before Sunrise_. Including me," he added, and Vargas laughed. A strange, carefree, lighthearted sound, no sign of condescension whatsoever. "But as for Bella Peeters being the female lead... What are your thoughts on that?"

He waited for a negative reaction from Vargas, a frown maybe, or hardened eyes. But – nothing. The man before him still smiled. He sure was good at this.

"Oh, I don't have much to say on that, really. She's a great person! Great at everything she does, too. I'm happy to be working with her..."

* * *

"So, how did it go, Antonio? ... Antonio?"

Antonio cracked open one eye, then the other. Both Francis and Gilbert were hovering eagerly over him, Francis with spatula in hand, Gilbert looking much better now, wearing thick pajamas and a heavy scarf.

"What d'you guys want?" mumbled Antonio, shutting his eyes once more.

"Aw, come on, Toni. Don't play." Gilbert was grinning. "This is  _serious_."

"I just survived an interview with the most famous actor in the  _world_. Can't I have a minute of peace –  _hey_! Francis!"

The Frenchman flipped open Antonio's notepad, devouring the words on the page, and his mouth opened in a large O.

"Whoa there, Francis, what's – wow." Gilbert stopped to read. "He really said all that?"

"Yeah... I wasn't expecting it at all."

Gilbert squinted suspiciously at him. "Are you  _sure_  that was Vargas?"

"I saw him with my own eyes!" protested Antonio. "But he did look happier than usual."

"Did you see him smile?" inquired Francis with great interest.

"... Yes?"

"No way," breathed Francis. "Antonio,  _mon ami_. You have to be the luckiest man alive! The guy  _never_  smiles in his pictures!"

"Did you ask him for an autograph?" Gilbert interrupted.

"No. Should I have?"

" _Zut_. Of course – why didn't you? Well, what was his place like? Gold-paved roads? Marble walls? Diamond windows?"

Antonio couldn't stop smiling.

"You two..."

It was going to be a long day. But not in a bad sense – no, not at all.

* * *

Pride welled up in his chest when he saw his article heading Thursday's Entertainment section.  _VARGAS COMMENTS ON FUTURE MOVIE ROLE WITH PEETERS_. And under the title,  _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_.

The views to their webpage had gone up several thousand in the last few hours for Antonio's article alone. They'd sold the most copies they had all week.

"Nice job with that one," said Arthur, passing Antonio's desk without so much as a smile.

"Thanks, Arthur."

Antonio felt lighter than he had in a long while.

Over by the doorway, Toris met his eyes and gave him a shy thumbs up. And Francis thumped him on the back while making googly eyes at the editor's retreating form. Antonio, silently elated by all the attention, was in the middle of a new article when he heard the phone ring, loud and demanding, and glanced up to see Mathias in his office answering.

"Good morning, this is the office of – " He stopped abruptly, eyes widening. "You are... Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Vargas. Is there something you – "

 _Vargas_.

Antonio jolted in his seat, barely noticing how the entire room had gone still upon hearing the name. All eyes were fixed on Mathias as he spoke, a frown beginning on his face.

"... You don't believe the article accurately reflects your views? All right... If you'd like to have it taken down, we'll do it immediately. Yes." He paused, and everyone else seemed to pause with him, holding their breaths. "We're very sorry for any problems this has caused you, Mr. Vargas... My deepest apologies."

He hung up and came out of his office, into the newsroom proper. A deadly silence. Antonio's blood had turned to ice.

"Antonio," said the Editor-in-Chief tiredly. "Can I talk to you for a minute, please?"

* * *

The door didn't just swing open; it slammed, and right away he knew it was Gilbert. Stalwart as a soldier, he'd gone marching out the second his sore throat and fever had passed, ready for another day of picking up news around the city. No one could say he wasn't devoted to his work.

"I'm home!" he sang, dropping everything to the floor with a thump. "Why's it so damn dark? Oh, Antonio, you're back early! How was your day today – Antonio?"

"... Yeah?"

"What happened to you?" Gilbert crossed over to him. "You're a mess!"

"Nothing happened." Antonio turned over on his side to better see the small TV on the coffee table, the only source of light in the flat. "Just watching the news."

He could almost feel Gilbert frowning beside him. The couch creaked as his friend sat down, close to where Antonio had curled up. Gilbert's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "Antonio, you don't ever have to watch the news, you make it yourself." Antonio said nothing. "Did something go wrong at the office?"

Antonio pulled a threadbare couch cushion over his eyes. "Vargas called."

A short silence. "What'd he say?"

"That I misrepresented his views. That my article had to be taken down. That I'm a horrid reporter, basically."

"What. Are you kidding me?" Gilbert's voice rose. "Are you fucking kidding me?  _You wrote down exactly what he said_! Right from your notes – " He jumped up, snatching Antonio's notepad off his desk to reread it. "See – it's the same thing! He said good shit about her! That was all – I saw your article myself,  _it's the same thing_!"

"Mathias and Arthur spoke with me," Antonio said listlessly. "I'm just sitting tight and awaiting further instructions."

Gilbert shook his head slowly. "No fucking way. They can't fucking fire you like that – it's  _unfair_." He grabbed his coat and started putting it back on. "I'm going back to talk to them, Vargas be damned."

"Don't bother. Francis was there – he argued with them when he heard. Now he might be in trouble too."

"Where'd he go?"

"Just to the market, to get food. He'll be back."

Gilbert sat down again and pulled Antonio to him, fingers brushing through the Spaniard's hair and untangling the knots. "Goddamnit, Antonio." His voice was a whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Antonio only closed his eyes. He had nothing to say.

* * *

 _At least_  they  _still have work_ , he thought to himself the next morning, lying in bed and watching his friends walk out the door.

His chest felt hollow. So unbearably hollow.

He went out to Times Square that evening and sat alone for an hour under the snow.

* * *

Five years of hard work and credibility, gone down the drain for no reason at all. Like those other five years he'd spent so long ago.

* * *

"Antonio," said Francis, shaking him. "Antonio, you have to at least  _eat_."

Antonio rolled over on his bed, facing the ceiling. "'M not hungry."

"I don't care if you're not hungry." But Francis' voice quickly lost its sharpness. "Come on, Toni. You need to keep your strength up. And how will you get work if you're just lying around?"

It was Gilbert's turn to make dinner. Francis, leading Antonio to the table, couldn't help a snicker at the wurst.

"Hey!" shouted Gilbert from his chair, mouth already full. "The hell you laughin' at?"

"I could've cooked that  _so_  much better."

"No way," Gilbert declared. "You gotta have some German in you for that."

"Are you implying something here – "

Antonio sat down and automatically put a spoonful into his mouth. At once he was ravenous. Gilbert and Francis watched in awe as he began shoveling down food like he'd been through a week-long famine.

"What did I tell you about my cooking?" Gilbert said with pride.

* * *

The third day, everyone's day off, Antonio read the newspapers. Francis noticed this, and also that the paper was their own  _Times_.

"Toni," he said cautiously. "You're – "

"Looking for a job," finished Antonio. "There has to be  _someone_  hiring around here."

But that day there was nothing.

He threw the paper into the fireplace.

* * *

"I'm going to the coffee shop," announced Antonio on the morning of the fourth day, pushing aside his chair and going to the coat rack. His two friends exchanged glances; this was why he'd bothered to actually dress properly.

"Are you asking about job openings?"

"Yeah." Antonio slipped on his coat and scarf. "I remember seeing a sign on their door last week."

"In that case..." Francis also rose. " _Bonne chance_!"

"Good luck!" echoed Gilbert.

Antonio mustered a grateful smile. "Thanks, guys – you're the best."

He was just pulling on his boots when his phone rang – the first time in four days. His heart stopped at the tinny sound, then leapt suddenly. Surely it had to be...

But the phone screen displayed no number; the person calling must have had it hidden. Antonio answered anyway, aware of Gilbert's and Francis' stares.

"Hello?"

"Is this Antonio Fernandez Carriedo?" demanded a male voice he didn't recognize. Low and smooth, with a slight undertone of irritation – or anxiety, he couldn't tell. For a second Antonio hesitated.

"... Yes? Who is this?"

The man on the other end let out a long sigh. " _Good_. I had a hard enough time even finding you in the first place. You came to my house instead of Beilschmidt, didn't you? And your employer at the  _Times_  fired you after I made that call?"

Antonio nearly dropped the phone.

 _No way_. There was  _no way_  –

"Are you Lovino Vargas?" he asked weakly. Two chairs overturned as Gilbert and Francis raced to his side.

"Yes," said the man. "Yes, I'm Lovino Vargas. We need to talk. It appears there's been a mistake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Spamano a lot whoops. 
> 
> This story is also on FFNet and DeviantArt under the same (or similar) profile names, so if you find it there that's me. If you find it anywhere else under any other name it was posted by someone else, and in that case please do notify me.
> 
> I do not own either Hetalia or Before Sunrise (an actual movie from 1995), but the plotline, dialogue, etc. (excluding some real-life locations) I thought up on my own. 
> 
> Thank you all!


	2. two to keep a secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lovino tries to save face, Antonio gets a second once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and (some) truth comes out.

Lovino Romano Vargas had done many things in his short, illustrious lifetime. He had worked his way up at eleven years old, seventeen years straight, to reach the topmost tier of the entertainment industry. He had, almost single-handedly, earned his own mansion and five hundred grand a day. He had donated over a fourth of his money to charities and started his own school. He had won the hearts of young ladies the world over (and a fair number of men into the bargain), without even breaking a sweat.

So calling an unlucky former reporter, of all the people in the world to be concerned with, shouldn't have been such a big deal. But it was – because Lovino had made a mistake. And Lovino Romano Vargas, at this point in his life, never made mistakes of this proportion. Especially not ones involving poor young men who'd meant no harm at all.

Lovino really was losing his touch.

Here in the mornings, he thought, it was always so chilly, when the cold air kept creeping in through the sides of the closed window-panes to ruffle the cream-colored curtains. He had been warm last night after seeing Carlota, but it had worn off too quickly. And now – five a.m., the worst possible time to be up taking care of business, with a headache and short temper to boot. Lovino hadn't bothered to turn on the lights.

"Hello?" he muttered again, fiddling idly with the phone cord and resisting the urge to yawn. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, on the other end, seemed to be taking his sweet time to answer; all Lovino could hear was his nervous breathing. "Did something happen over there? Where'd you go?"

The man finally spoke. "You... you've got to be kidding me." Either his voice was shaking, or it was just the static, or both. There was something about the way he sounded – young and inexperienced to Lovino's ears. "If you're a prank caller doing this for your own amusement, please stop. It's not funny."

"Oh, come on." Lovino nearly rolled his eyes, then remembered no one could see him, and did so anyway. "Do you think I'd know about the interview arrangements if I wasn't me? I don't have time to explain." He glanced over at the mantelpiece, on which sat an antique clock, ticking steadily towards 5:10. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry for what happened last week, I'll – "

"Damn right!" a rough, obnoxious voice interrupted, drowning out all else. "How could you even  _do_  that to our Antonio? You'd better be sorry, Vargas, I don't care if you're rich and famous, you have  _no idea_  what he went through – "

Lovino delicately moved the phone away from his ear. The chandelier above him sparkled despite the lack of light, its crystal pieces making tiny tinkles in the air. He counted. Two, four, six, eight. Breathe in, breathe out, calm. He had dealt with more than this before.

"And  _who_  do I have the honor of speaking to?"

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," proclaimed the stranger ( _he should have known_ ), "and I'd thank you to fucking remember it!"

Then came a muffled exclamation, and brief fumbling noises, followed by a thump. It sounded as if their phone had just fallen. A few seconds passed, before Antonio came back onto the line, even more perturbed by now. He must finally have decided Lovino was really Lovino.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. I – my friend – please excuse him, he didn't mean – "

"It's fine." With his free hand Lovino massaged his temple. "It was my mistake. I wasn't really... I apologize. I could speak to your boss and rearrange things for you. If you'd like."

"No, it'll be – it's all right. You don't have to." Not just a young one, but a soft-spoken and proud young one. Almost enough to make Lovino feel guilty. "Thank you, though."

"Are you  _sure_?"

"Yes." For the first time since they'd spoken, Antonio sounded fairly certain. "I can manage."

"It's not hard for me," Lovino tried. "I just have to call him and take back my statement. I saw the article about you, you know." Antonio had fallen silent. "I'm sorry for that. I'll make it up to you. I could send you a check – "

"Don't."

Lovino made a comical 'What?' face at the phone that no one was around to see.

"What?"

"Don't call him," said Antonio. "Don't send me money. I'm not going back. You don't need to do anything for me."

Lovino's head had started hurting again, but in a different way altogether.

How on earth could this man be so damn  _stubborn_? Where anyone would've accepted the help – or at least the money – in recompense, he'd refused everything right off. They were all the same, these young men, so full of themselves. But how the hell could Lovino hush things up if he didn't –

"Do you have a job right now?" he asked instead.

A longer pause this time. His question seemed to have caught Antonio off guard.

"... No," Antonio answered after a moment. He sounded deflated now. "No, I don't."

He was just out to guilt-trip Lovino, wasn't he? But intentional or not, he'd achieved the desired effect.

"Well then, would you like me to..." This time Lovino took care to avoid the word 'help.' "... find one for you? I have a lot of business connections." That, of course, being an understatement.

"No. No, it's – "

"It's not fine." Firmness, he knew, could move mountains. "I insist. How about you come back here so we can discuss this? I'm free tomorrow afternoon. I could pay for your plane ticket – I owe you at least that much."

Antonio's voice was panicked, almost adorably so. "But – Mr. Vargas, you don't have to – "

"Call me Lovino. And I'll see you soon, whenever you're available."

"Gosh, I – " Antonio let out a breath. "I – thank you, Mr – Lovino. You really didn't – "

"It's nothing. Have a nice day, all right?"

"I-I will. You too. Thank you so much..." Antonio stopped short, almost as if he had something else to say. "Well, I – I'll be there tomorrow. Around two p.m. I'll give you a call."

"That'll be great. Until then, Antonio. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

A second, a click, and Antonio had hung up.

Lovino stared at the phone for a few minutes afterwards, as if it might suddenly explode in his hand. By all standards that had been one hell of a conversation. And clearly the black coffee from an hour ago had yet to work its magic. Note to self – never call people early in the morning again.

He shook himself and replaced the phone on the table.

The clock now read 5:45. Perfect. At this rate he'd still have an hour or two to spend before going to see Roderich for his new suit (which he'd wear tomorrow, just to see Antonio's reaction). He stood up and began carefully to make his way towards the light-switch. Strange that Hans the butler still wasn't up – he'd get a little talking to later, for sure –

Somewhere beyond the living room, a door creaked open. A short yelp was all the warning Lovino had before a ball of grey fur shot out from around the corner, straight into his knees, causing him to lose his balance.

"Argh!"

He promptly received his standard morning greeting, a face full of doggy saliva. Never mind the fact that he wasn't in the mood for it (he never was) – little Angie the Pomeranian had just achieved what every fan in the world would've liked to do to him. Even to her, apparently, Lovino was amazingly hot.

"Get off me," he grumbled, to more enthusiastic barking. No sooner had he peeled her from his face than he heard footsteps descending the stairs and a switch being flicked on. In the sudden blinding light, he could just discern a familiar someone leaning over him – his brother Feliciano.

"Ah, so that's where you went!" Angie, still barking merrily, was lifted away by a pair of hands not unlike Lovino's own. "I heard you both yelling. You're better than an alarm clock!"

"Really, now," muttered Lovino, getting up and dusting himself off. "I fail to see your humor. If I get any bruises you'll be on set next week."

"Oh, but you know you love our Angie. Don't you, Lovi? See, she knows," Feliciano crooned, petting her fur, completely oblivious to Lovino's struggle to clean his face. "Aww... what a cutie."

"Feli, you're acting like a girl again."

"Since when?" In response to Lovino's no-nonsense look, Feliciano only pouted; for Lovino it felt like gazing at a mirror image of himself. "I'm twenty-eight now, Lovi, can't you see?"

"And so am I." Suddenly Lovino's headache had returned with full force. He sank back down on the couch and closed his eyes. "I called that reporter just now, Feli."

At long last he'd gained his brother's attention. "I heard you! Was he the one I told you about? Antonio... Carriedo, I think his name was?"

"Who else? He's coming over tomorrow afternoon. I didn't tell him how I made that  _magnificent_  screw-up the other day, but I have to tell him something. Help me out."

Feliciano sat down beside him and also closed his eyes. "I'd just apologize again, give him some money and patch things up with his work. He should be quiet then."

"Problem is, it's free money to him. He doesn't want it."

"But Vargas money is always a good thing!"

Lovino glanced pointedly over at him. "He doesn't want it."

"Well..." Feliciano seemed lost for words; then his eyes brightened and he turned excitedly to Lovino. "... He's certainly good-looking enough! Don't you think, Lovi?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" But it was true. Lovino had seen his picture in the article about his being fired. Somewhat unruly brown hair, somewhat tired green eyes, but a nice smile. A nice honesty about him. That was rare, in journalists. "You're not saying..."

"If he's looking for a job, hire him! God knows he needs  _that_  sort of money."

It took a moment to sink in.

"Good point."

* * *

In retrospect, it hadn't really been Lovino's fault. There was plenty to blame. Including alcohol, bad days and a woman named Bella Peeters.

He remembered receiving the call last Wednesday. Wednesdays were the only days he really ever put up with, the days he did everything he could and nothing he wanted. And the last thing he'd expected was to answer a Mathias Kohler from the  _Times_ , oh-so-courteously demanding an interview for the  _next_  Wednesday (damn him). Not only that, but twelve hours before the interview was to take place, he'd gotten  _another_  call informing him of a change – Gilbert Beilschmidt to Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. He had had only one thought.

There were some serious management problems over at the  _Times_.

The first thing Lovino had done after the first call was silence his phone and shout for Tino the chauffeur to drive faster. After the second call he silenced his phone and went straight to bed.

It wasn't as though he had to be there in person.

Feliciano had been all too happy to take on the assignment, with further instructions on limiting his cheerful vibes so he'd be more believable. The sad thing was, he'd never been one for taking Lovino's advice. But for once Lovino didn't care. With an easy conscience the next morning he'd set out with Tino, and by the time the fateful Bella Peeters question was popped, he was cruising around Beverly Hills in the back of a limousine, a bottle of Rioja his trusty companion.

(He'd also gone to see his maybe-future-girlfriend Carlota for some fun, but that was beside the point. Just as Bella was beside the point.)

Problem was, he'd been just a bit drunk in the morning, just drunk enough to forget to remind Feliciano how to  _answer_  the fateful Bella Peeters question. And he'd returned drunk the next morning, just drunk enough to throw a fit at the article and complain loudly to the  _Times_. Feliciano in turn had also been reprimanded, just enough, just enough.

One day later, of course, he'd regretted it.

(So in retrospect, it  _had_  kind of been his fault. But that was also beside the point.)

* * *

Though two hours was the most free time he'd had all week, between avoiding newspaper reporters, seeing Carlota, ignoring Bella's calls (whatever the hell she meant by them, he didn't  _care_ ), and going over the scripts director Alfred Jones had provided, he realized he didn't know what to do with himself.

As promised, he went to see Roderich Edelstein, arriving on the designer's doorstep the minute the clock struck seven.

"Fancy seeing you here, Vargas," drawled the man, simply because he could, and also because after ten years of knowing each other there really was no other suitable greeting. Lovino favored him with the sardonic smile he reserved for close and wealthy friends, and stepped past him into the parlor.

He never ceased to be amazed with Roderich's eye for design of all kinds. The roof overhead was a low-hanging pattern of wooden slats, vanishing into whitewashed walls adorned with musical-themed paintings. A circular one, the size of a tabletop, had been placed in the center of them all, splashed with hues of red, blue and green.

"A present from my niece," remarked Roderich when he caught Lovino staring.

"Ah."

To that piece all else appeared secondary – nearly invisible unlit fireplace, the vase of pink flowers on the glass table, white chairs with black stripes, small trimmed bush in the corner with its very own pot. Most of the room was sparsely furnished. It made one feel small.

Lovino never liked feeling small. But Roderich did that to everyone.

"I didn't come late to the party, did I?"

"No." Roderich took a seat opposite him and observed him closely, violet eyes through half-moon glasses. "But too much partying is bad for the health. Your face tells me that much."

He should've expected Roderich to notice.

"Ah, shut it."

The designer sniffed – quite literally. "You still smell like alcohol."

"That's because I drank some on the way here."

"Drunk driving is illegal, Lovino Vargas. Even for actors like you."

"For your information, I was in the back of a limo. Your argument is therefore invalid."

Roderich almost smiled. "You're in a great mood today, aren't you, Lovino?"

"Always am, always will be. Where's the suit I requested?"

"Coming forth." Reaching for a bell at the end of the table, Roderich rang. A young man immediately entered with a small wrapped package. "I'd have invited you to my studio to try it out, but it's closed today. You know how the rules are."

"That's fine." Lovino had no desire to stay longer, anyway. "I'll be going now, then. Got an urgent appointment with the director. We could go to dinner later this week, maybe?"

"Oh, I know your ways, Lovino. Well, I accept – the dinner part only, that is. Not tomorrow?"

"No. I have to meet someone."

"You're making me jealous. Who is it?"

"No one you need to know. Don't worry, I'll call you when I'm free."

"Well." Roderich saw him to the door nevertheless. "I'd say you should try on that suit when you get home, and tell me what you think. Considering you've gotten thinner, there may still be room for adjustment."

Damn him for being so perceptive.

* * *

Luckily, the suit fit after all.

So Lovino had the last laugh – like he always did.

* * *

Antonio had agreed to meet him... when? Two p.m.?

But the little antique clock, which he'd have to replace soon, had already struck three-thirty. Even though fashionable lateness had always been Lovino's forte, this was  _really_  pushing it. He'd told Feliciano to come back around four, however, and that should be plenty of time to work things out with the former journalist.

If he ever arrived, of course.

After a short and unsuccessful attempt at a siesta, Lovino debated giving the man a call. If Antonio had been true to his word, he'd probably set out at around eight that morning, and if he didn't know his way around here he was probably lost on the streets. Lovino didn't at all like the idea of a guest being lost on the streets. Accordingly he searched through his call records for an out-of-state number, found it, and redialed. There was no need to hide his number now.

Ten rings later Antonio picked up.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Vargas – "

"Lovino," Lovino reminded him.

"... Lovino." Funny how three syllables could produce such an effect on another man. But Lovino relished it. "I'm so sorry I didn't pick up... my phone was dead before. I'm really late, aren't I?"

"Yes," said Lovino, with his best attempt at an unperturbed Feliciano voice. "Where are you right now? Do you need help getting here?"

"I... I'm on my way. I'm in a taxi right now." Antonio sounded rather ashamed – good for him. "Something happened and... well, that's not important. I'm really, really sorry. I'll be there in..." There was a pause. "Five minutes, tops."

"Great."

He made sure to tap out a quick text.  _Change of plan, sorry Feli. Don't come back yet, I'll tell you when the coast is clear._

No answer, as expected, but Feliciano still had half an hour.

And Antonio, this time, proved true to his word. In five minutes there was a ring at the doorbell, and the butler went to receive him. Lovino remained in the living room until he could hear their footsteps in the foyer, then rose, went to the door and stopped.

Antonio was taller than he'd expected.  _Much_  taller.

Half a head of height difference was only acceptable if Lovino was the one towering over people.

"Nice to see you again, Antonio," he was careful to say. "How was your trip?"

"It was... fine." But Antonio's face suggested otherwise. "There was a problem at the airport, though."

Lovino hadn't heard. "What happened?"

"Someone was arrested," said Antonio, looking like he'd rather not talk about it. "For smuggling weapons, I think... it delayed the rest of us for a bit. I'm sorry for being late."

"Oh, I see. It's all right." Secretly Lovino was wondering how he'd managed to miss the news, aside from not having checked that morning. He'd definitely have to hire someone to do that for him. "I didn't have anything going on today, anyway. And I just sent you your check."

Antonio froze. "Check?"

"For your ticket. You'll receive it later – I assumed you'd refuse if I gave it to you in person."

A quirk of the mouth. Would've looked nice on Antonio, had it been an actual smile. "You know me so well already, Mr – Lovino."

"I try. Anyway, have a seat."

Antonio sat, appearing remarkably unresentful in the house of someone who'd just lost him his job. In a glance Lovino's practiced eye took in everything there was to take in.

Suit a horrible faded grey, looking as if it had just celebrated its third birthday. Tie in a similar state. Shoes sordid brown, quite out of style. One would've thought a journalist might have enough money to afford a better suit, though maybe there were exceptions – or Lovino was just being critical. But Antonio's hair was the naturally curling kind Lovino had always envied, and his eyes were a softer green than the newspaper photo had let on. Every one of his features spoke of gentleness, though not necessarily contentment.

"How old are you?" asked Lovino before he could stop himself. Antonio jumped slightly at the sudden question, his eyes growing a little rounder.

"Twenty-two."

"Oh." Lovino didn't know why he was so surprised. There were plenty of young journalists the world over, he'd just never met any of them. He'd always thought they were the same, sarcastic little creatures with biting tongues. But Antonio's very presence was breaking all those rules. "Well... about what happened, I'm sorry again. I told you yesterday I could speak to your boss. You're certain you don't want me to?"

"I'm certain. It's all right," said Antonio, meeting his eyes squarely. "I wanted a change anyway." Lovino anticipated the question in his face and cut in at once.

"You're still looking for a job, aren't you?"

"Yes..."

"What type of job would you like? I could recommend you for one. Art, design, film, you name it. I know people all over the globe."

Now Antonio looked distinctly uncomfortable. "That... that's really kind of you, Lovino... but – "

"No buts, all right? You deserve something nice." The chandelier jingled quietly overhead. "Just tell me and I could make the call."

Immediately he realized he'd been too bold, and too quick; Antonio's eyes didn't lose their confused expression, but the question in them had resurfaced. It was too late to stop him.

"If you don't mind my asking..." Another little jingling noise. "What made you call on that day?"

For the first time that day – for the first time he could remember – Lovino didn't know what to say. No suitable answer had occurred to him that wouldn't also detract from his reputation. And telling the truth was inconceivable. He glanced briefly toward the door to the foyer, away from Antonio, and all of a sudden realized the jingling wasn't coming from the chandelier. It was coming from beyond the living room, along with a new sound.

Footsteps.

" _Fratello_!" A voice shouted cheerfully. "I'm back – "

He couldn't get to the door fast enough to prevent it from opening.

Feliciano waltzed through, saw them both, and his smile faded rapidly into nothingness.

"Oh my God."

He was not the only one who had frozen up. Antonio was staring at him, mouth wide open, comprehension slowly dawning in his eyes.

"You..." He turned to Lovino, who had lost the ability to speak, and then back to Feliciano. "You... I... I talked to you on Wednesday." His face was so frightfully blank. "It's you... right?"

At last Feliciano relented. "Yes."

"Then..." Antonio mechanically faced Lovino again. "... Who are you?"

Lovino had only two words.

"Fucking  _shit_."

* * *

They remained like that for a full five minutes, Feliciano almost shivering under the weight of Lovino's gaze and Antonio looking between the two of them bewilderedly, over and over and over again.

No one spoke until he did.

"Could someone please explain?" He sounded quite helpless. "Please?"

Feliciano shifted, but was stopped by the look Lovino sent him. "I... I can't tell you," he said instead, very convincingly.

"You're twins, aren't you." No one answered; it was a statement, not a question, and it was the truth. "How...?"

"It's a long story," interrupted Lovino. "I'd rather not go into details at this point."

"But – " Antonio had lost his nervousness now, and gestured wildly toward Feliciano. "I spoke to him! He was the one I cited in my article... and then you called, right? And got me fired?" Without raising his voice, he somehow managed to radiate upset. "What do you mean by this? I never did anything to either of you! Never!"

"It was a  _mistake_! I'm trying to make it up to you!"

"And what then? What secret are you even keeping from everyone, besides your twin? Who's the real Lovino Vargas here? You can tell me that much, at least?"

Lovino sighed.

"I am."

Feliciano implored him with his eyes. " _Fratello_... please. Can't we just tell him? We've hurt him enough."

"You're supposed to  _help_  me, not side with everyone else! You know why we can't!"

"I'm not! I just think he has a right to know!" Facing Antonio, Feliciano lowered his voice. "If we tell you, you'll promise to keep quiet for us, won't you?"

"I will." Antonio said it without the heavy false conviction of liars, without conviction at all. Without expression. "Tell me, if you want. I don't care."

Once more Lovino wasn't fast enough to stop his brother.

"I'm Feliciano and I'm his substitute. I just act in his place sometimes. That's all."

Antonio looked neither amazed nor disappointed by his short explanation. "So you were just acting for me that Wednesday. On your brother's behalf." Feliciano gave a nod. "And he read the article the next day and thought I – "

"He was drinking."

"You just  _had_  to include that bit, didn't you."

"Oh. That makes sense now." Antonio smiled briefly and stood. "Well, I guess I'll be going. I'm sorry if I was a bother. I didn't know you'd both be here."

"Wait, Antonio!" Lovino called after him. "What are you doing?"

"Going home. Is there anything else you need, Mr. Vargas?"

"I'd like you to stay and talk something over with me."

Antonio stopped, then came back and resumed his seat. "All right."

"About your needing a job. I haven't forgotten that, you know." Feliciano, sitting quietly to Lovino's left now, did not interrupt. "I know about all the work you've done in journalism. I could find you a job at another newspaper. But aside from that, if you're not interested... I may be in need of an assistant."

He knew Antonio would understand instantly. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can accept either."

"Maybe you could think it over."

"I will." Lovino didn't stop him from leaving this time. "I'll tell you when I've come to a decision."

They watched as, escorted by the butler, he made his way back to the door, looking sad and forlorn in his old suit and old shoes. At the last minute he turned back.

"Goodbye, Mr. Vargas," he said to each of them in turn. "It was nice meeting you both."

His words hung heavily in the air, long after he'd departed.

* * *

It was quiet at breakfast that Wednesday.

All too aware of the absence of his wineglass, Lovino aimlessly ran his fork through the scrambled eggs on his plate. Feliciano, just opposite him, was doing the same, but unlike Lovino he was actually eating.

"I messed that up pretty bad, didn't I," said Lovino to the air. He could feel his brother staring at him, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on his food.

"I did too. I shouldn't have."

"The one time you turned your phone off."

"I know. I'm sorry, Lovi."

Lovino waved his fork in a gesture of surrender. "It doesn't matter anymore. What Carriedo says, he says. We've been hiding this for too long already."

"He didn't look like the type to tell secrets," mused Feliciano. "Not even if he was angry."

"Who knows."

"He seemed like a nice guy. Really."

"Even nice guys have their limits."

Feliciano had nothing to say to that. The rest of the meal passed in an uncomfortable silence.

"I think I'll get Tino to sneak me into Grauman's," he announced an hour later. "I heard there's a premiere on today. Want to come with us?"

"No thanks," muttered Lovino, sprawled on the couch with Angie curled in his lap. "We'd get found out easier that way."

"Oh, come on, Lovi. You're sure?"

"Yeah. I still need to ask Roderich out."

"Really?"

"Of course. I promised him something nice, and I still have to call him."

"Well... have it your way then!" Feliciano put on his sunglasses (he never could tell his own from Lovino's) and went to the door. "I'll be careful, don't worry! See you later!"

"Bye."

Good thing Tino had been expressly advised not to take Feli anywhere public.

Lovino sighed and closed his eyes after the door had swung shut, but even that was denied him. Angie had started licking his face again. He groaned and pulled her off, gently nevertheless.

"What are you up to again?" A bark. "I'm tired. Stop bothering me."

She nuzzled against his arm.

"Goddamnit. Forget this shit. I'm going to sleep, Carriedos be damned."

The phone rang.

He waited five whole seconds before picking up, knowing he still sounded like he'd just rolled out of bed. "Hello?"

"Hello?" inquired a familiar voice. "Hello, Mr. Vargas. How are you today?"

Lovino, despite his skill in maintaining his composure, nearly dropped the phone.

" _Antonio_?"

"Yes, Mr. Vargas, I'm Antonio. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. I just wanted to call and tell you... I accept. I'd like to be your assistant. If you're all right with it."

In that moment Lovino believed wholeheartedly in his lucky stars.

And thanked them.


	3. three architects of normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio finds out surprises are part of the job description. Both welcome and unwelcome ones.

In the end he had no choice but to tell them. Not everything, not the precise painful truth, but the basic gist of things, all the parts that had to do with Antonio himself, his near future, and by extension his friends. This was the one thing he couldn't hide from them - not from two of the only people he could trust in this world.

Gilbert and Francis hadn't looked this apprehensive since the day Antonio first stepped off the plane from his meeting with the Vargases. And they had a right to be.

But if only it didn't have to be this way.

Now it was just three of them around a small wooden table, both of them staring at him, and Antonio didn't know what they could read from his face.

"What is it, Toni?" asked Gilbert at last, fingers going  _tap-tap-tap_ against the tabletop, a nervous habit of his at times like these. His voice sounded strangely edgy. "It's not that stupid Vargas business again, is it?"

"Yes, I just - " Both their faces fell at once and Antonio had to stop momentarily. Then he started again. "I - well, remember the job offer I told you about?"

"That bullshit?" Gilbert interrupted, as if by reflex. "Did they call you again just for that? They must've been desperate."

"No, it's not - they didn't - "

"Antonio. Just tell us what happened," said Francis suddenly, the look in his eye more knowing than Antonio would have liked. But there was no judgment in his tone, no criticism. He leaned closer in his chair, the creaking not helping Antonio's nerves. "What did you do?"

"I... They didn't call me. I called them back." This was it. "And I told them... I'd like to work for them."

Complete silence, heavy and suffocating. It seemed to last for an age.

Then Gilbert finally said, "What the hell is going on."

"I'm sorry, I should've told you right away, but I - "

"You mean you could've told us  _before_ ," stated Francis matter-of-factly, and Antonio's heart sank at his voice. "But you didn't. Why did you do that, Antonio? Is it because you don't like it here? Are you tired of living with us, or - "

" _No_!" Antonio exclaimed with a vehemence that surprised even himself. "Why would you ever think that? It's nothing to do with you guys - only you don't know how hard it's been, just asking for job openings around here!" He didn't want to tell them, he didn't, but he had to go on. "Everyone thinks I'm dishonest after that newspaper thing with Vargas, and what else can I tell them? I can't even defend myself! Since when did I have a choice?"

"But why  _him_?" Gilbert muttered, something sad and disappointed in his voice, and they both turned to him. "He hurt you, Antonio. Haven't you got any pride?"

"Pride doesn't matter to me anymore," Antonio heard himself say. "There's no use being dignified if I can't even support myself."

That was when Francis pushed back his chair and stood up. "All right, enough of this. If Antonio's decided, he's decided. I still haven't made dinner." He went to the kitchen, and they heard no more from him except the clang of pots and pans and the banging of cupboards. A minute or two passed and then Gilbert followed suit.

But before he left the room, he turned back, strode over to Antonio and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo," he said slowly, and his voice was expressionless. "Please tell me that was all a joke."

Antonio couldn't say a word. There was something heartbreaking in Gilbert's face.

"I know," he went on. "I know you don't have a choice. But dear God, Antonio - you don't even know what you're doing, do you?"

There was no way anyone could have answered that question. They stared at each other for a moment. Gilbert's hand came to rest briefly on Antonio's cheek.

"You're almost like a brother to me, Toni. What do you say to a brother when he leaves like this?"

But before Antonio could even reply, his face closed abruptly and he dropped his hand, as if he'd revealed too much, made apparent something he shouldn't have. Without another word he stepped back and retreated behind the partition. And Antonio was left alone at the suddenly large table of the empty living room.

* * *

The silhouette of the plane loomed high in the distance. One side, the side facing New York and all its tumultuous bustling wonders, was cast in shadow; the other shone silver in the sunlight that came from the west and greater things beyond.

Antonio felt very small beside it, in keeping with his habit of feeling intimidated when he had no reason to be. But this time his intimidation carried with it the uncertainty of hope. He pulled his suitcase through the smooth tile of the lobby, all but forgetting his two friends flanking him in silence.

He neared the terminal that would be his gateway to bigger and better things and turned back once to look Gilbert and Francis in the eyes. Already a new resolve and optimism had begun to grow in his green gaze, only tempered by the strong emotions he saw reflected in the looks they gave him. Briefly letting go of his suitcase, he stretched out both his arms to embrace them.

"I'll make sure to keep in touch," he whispered. "And come back to visit too."

But not one of them was certain of the latter. Gilbert and Francis were quieter than they should be.

"Have a great trip," said Francis at last with a smile, although it looked somewhat forced. "And update me on everything when you can."

"I will."

Gilbert remained silent until the very end, until Antonio was one step away from the terminal, until the distance between them had become unbearable.

"You said you'd never leave me," he shouted, his voice sending the hurt of betrayal through the impassive metal walls of the airport, and when Antonio turned and tried to look over people's heads for him, he was already gone, running back the way he had come, out of the airport and away from the impending reality of sadness.

* * *

They'd asked him plenty of questions, but none too prying, and it seemed he'd passed the initial test. Feliciano had started upon hearing that Antonio had no parents, that he'd worked his way through university on his own, that he still had student loans to pay off, as if this kind of thing was unheard of and unbelievable, but he appeared to forget it soon after.

Once more Antonio found himself in the imposing living room, sitting very solemnly on the improbably luxurious couch, the Vargas brothers across from him. Only this time everything felt somewhat more welcoming - from the golden mid-morning sunlight enveloping them to the softness of the air and how easy Lovino's and Feliciano's smiles looked.

"First things first - do you have any questions? Anything you don't agree with, or do you accept the terms of our contract in full?"

Lovino Vargas, Antonio had begun to realize, was a remarkably versatile man - one moment all kindness and concern, the next as clipped and professional as any lawyer, with no visible transition in between - though he  _did_ happen to be a renowned actor. His face bespoke the same cool, collected handsomeness Antonio recalled from countless movies; the famous eyes of placid hazel watched him almost expectantly.

A completely unreadable man, with completely unreadable motives - and yet Antonio was tempted to accept his offer then and there.

"Well, I..." Gilbert and Francis' faces flashed for a minute in his memory, and he paused mid-thought. Perhaps caution was best after all. "I'd like to think about this for one more day, if you don't mind."

As expected, Lovino's face remained unchanged. "Oh, of course you can - take all the time you need. Just contact us again when you're ready. You have my number, don't you?"

"Yes."

"There's no hurry, really," interposed Feliciano, with a smile that put Antonio's to shame. "We've gotten by for this long without many assistants, but we do feel you're very qualified for the job." How much of that was his honest opinion and not Lovino's instructions, Antonio had yet to find out.

But he  _seemed_ genuine enough.

"Thank you," said Antonio, and meant it. "Thank you both for your time."

They all stood up at the same time. Lovino, his smile businesslike, offered his hand and Antonio shook it. The actor's fingers were rougher than he'd expected; Lovino let go quickly enough, as if he'd rather Antonio not dwell on the fact. Feliciano, on the other hand, gave him a hearty pat on the back and led him all the way to the front door, disregarding the butler just as he'd done the first day. And as Antonio reached the exit he could have sworn the second Vargas whispered into his ear.

"Don't worry, he's just a big teddy bear."

What that was supposed to mean, Antonio didn't know. But it set him to thinking, again.

When he finally stepped outside, the sun was almost at its highest point in the sky.

* * *

He found himself thankful for his hotel choice when he unlocked his room door and collapsed onto the rigid little bed, his mind still filled with the visions of grandeur he had personally witnessed on a round through the streets with the cab driver. Here, he was nestled peacefully between the Vargas estate and the airport. Convenient and quiet. Late afternoon sunlight slanted gently onto the sloped ceiling, sunlight that must've come from somewhere across the Pacific to reach Los Angeles and Beverly Hills and vault over the mansions to reach this unassuming fourth-floor window. The view was good but he didn't feel like looking straight into the setting sun. Instead he felt for the sheaf of papers on the bedside table and held them up to catch the light.

A cursory read at the Vargas' place had left him with a satisfactory impression, but here, alone, he could fully appreciate the skill involved in writing the whole thing. He was half-convinced Lovino had drafted it himself; judging from the way he'd spoken at their three-man conference, that assumption couldn't be far off the mark.

The entire document was perfunctory - a total of ten pages, sprinkled throughout with official-sounding words. In it Antonio's duties were clearly listed: assist his employer (presumably Lovino) with any day-to-day events in his acting career; send and receive electronic communications and phone calls on Lovino's behalf; guard confidential information relating to Lovino's personal life, work, and relationships; and lastly, to do all else within his job requirement to make sure Lovino's life went smoothly. Also listed was his salary, a decent number, followed by his work schedule (40 hours a week) and an allotted sick leave of 24 days per year.

Personal assistants, then, were not taken lightly.

But a small part of him wanted to disregard all the numbers, wanted to forget the fact that the main thing here was finding a way to support himself and not something else.

He read on, and at the very end he found the sentence he'd been looking for:

_Contract terminable upon request of either employer or employee, or at the consent of both._

Well, that was assurance enough, wasn't it? Because Antonio had wanted a change of air, a change of scene, and this was the only way he could get all of it without going broke. What were 40 hours a week if they bought him a new perspective, one that he wanted? And what did he have to fear from Lovino anyway, aside from a multitude of assigned tasks, because that was the way things would be?

But just then he thought of Gilbert and Francis and the entirety of the time they'd spent together in their little flat - how Gilbert would always play "Das alles ist Deutschland" to start the day, how Francis would always mumble bits and pieces of French recipes in his sleep; the many stupid videos they'd made and laughed at later, the dumb jokes and arguments that they always patched up afterwards; the way they'd managed to make things work for the past five years, just the three of them - and his heart hurt, suddenly and bewilderedly.

He had thought this move would mark a new and wondrous episode in his life, one in which he would release the fetters that had bound his spirit and willpower throughout his youth - and the change really did seem to be manifesting itself, so why did his conscience still prick him like this? Antonio knew for certain he was no longer a fool: he could see with his own two eyes, he could think with his own head and he thought he'd made a good decision. His needs were few and simple, always had been; so why did some small voice inside keep telling him this was selfish?

He didn't want to remember, but all of a sudden the same silvery female voice rang in his memory:  _Antonio dear, this is for your own good. Don't disobey me, Mama only wants the best for you._

_You'll understand eventually._

But what was that understanding worth? All he'd learned from it was the terrible pain of forcing himself into an image he would never fit. The recurring disappointment and frustration of giving up his dream for someone else's, to gain approval that he didn't need or want.

And now that Antonio was actually making a move, actually rallying his initiative, everything was coming back to haunt him, every little mistake, every bad choice,  _everything_.

Why did he have to be the one pulled in a million different directions? Why him? And why did no one understand his simple yearning to do what he loved?

His heart had lain dormant long enough. The spell had controlled him for long enough. He had broken free, and he knew what he wanted now. It was very clear.

He wanted this.

He wanted to find himself here.

He wanted  _escape_.

_"You don't even know what you're doing, do you?"_

But he did. Didn't he?

He took several pictures of the contract and sent them to Francis, fighting the guilty feeling in his chest, because he needed something to help drive back the wave of doubt. For a second his finger hovered over Gilbert's picture on the screen, debating whether or not to let him know too, but he stopped himself.

Gilbert already had enough pain to deal with. This was unwarranted and unnecessary.

* * *

 _So... have you signed it yet?_ Francis texted him several hours later, after he'd read through the contract and deemed it shipshape. Antonio could find no trace of enmity in the message, and breathed a silent, relieved sigh.

 _Not yet._ Antonio hesitated over his phone screen, trying to find the right words, and then he went on.  _I asked for one more day. But I want to accept._

Five minutes passed.

 _Well... best of luck to you ok? We'll keep in touch, bother you every so often, send you stupid things._ The disappointment behind the words was evident now.  _We're there for you in spirit, Toni._ And then, Francis enough:  _Forgive Gilbert ok? He didn't mean to yell at you the day you left._

_No he didn't do anything wrong, it was me. Is he still angry with me?_

_No, he's fine. Just sleeping_ _rn_ _which is why I can't call. But he'd call you if he were awake._

Antonio let out a breath.  _Ok, you don't need to wake him up. Thank you though. Thank you both._ _You guys are the best._

Four hours later, when the stars were winking high in the sky, his phone buzzed twice. Two texts, both from Gilbert. A minute passed before Antonio worked up the courage to read them. The first said,  _I'm sorry._

And the second:

_I miss you._

* * *

Lovino handed him the fountain pen, his face impassive and unreadable as ever, and Antonio reached out to take it. Nestled in his hand it felt like paradise, an instrument of power and authority. He held it poised over the paper, and then he signed the three words that would change his life from that point on:  _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo._ A weight seemed to have left his chest from the simple gesture.

He watched with Feliciano as Lovino scrawled out a signature as incomprehensible as himself. The actor flipped through the pages, noting the parts Antonio had filled out, and then set the stack back on the table, not one sheet out of place.

"I hope you don't mind, Antonio, but I'd like you to move in today if you can," he said without preamble. "Things are about to get busy in the next few weeks and I need all the help I can get."

"It's no problem, Mr. Vargas - "

"Lovino," the actor corrected almost automatically, as if he were used to such mistakes, and stood up. "Come with me. Feli and I will show you around."

Antonio followed them, quite carefully because the mansion, however large, did not seem to be made for people his own size. He found this out by hitting his head in the doorway, which earned a small, hastily suppressed laugh from Feliciano and an eyebrow raise from Lovino. First the Vargases showed him the rest of the ground floor, which housed miscellaneous parlors, the kitchen, an indoor gym and dance floor, with a massive swimming pool and garden in the backyard. Then they led him up the stairs to his room, which Lovino explained was the best of the five guest rooms they had available.

"Go on, take a look. You're welcome to move things around if you want to."

Antonio took more than a look; he took in the whole thing at once.

It had never occurred to him that a room reserved solely for sleeping and solitary work could be beautiful and not simply utilitarian. Everything was in different tones of blue and green. Beside the door was a polished wooden desk, along with a chair upholstered by blue cushions. The king-sized bed sported the fluffiest-looking pillows and comforters he had ever seen, across from it a couch the color of the sea, and a closet even taller than Antonio stood in the right corner, a mirror reflecting their faces on each door. All around them the wallpaper shone a serene turquoise in the light streaming in from the open shutters.

Making sure not to sound too amazed by it all, Antonio thanked them graciously and they went on. The other guest rooms stretched to the left of Antonio's, and Lovino's was directly to his right, followed by Feliciano's.

"And this is the study," said Lovino, gesturing to the door across from his own. "You'll need a key from me to go in; besides you, me and Feli, no one else can enter unless I give them permission."

They stopped after the second floor because the third was simply the attic, but already the images had fixed themselves in Antonio's mind. The end result of all their travels was an amazing desire on Antonio's part to have a house like this one someday, if only to enjoy himself more than he had in the tiny little flat back in New York.  _If only Gil and Francis were here to see this,_ he thought, and then shook himself.

"Any questions?" Lovino said for the second time in two days.

"No..." Nevertheless a million questions raced through Antonio's head, all of them not very relevant. "It's beautiful," he said at last, truthfully enough.

Lovino smiled. "That's the point."

* * *

So began a new phase in Antonio's life. Whether it was positive or negative he could not be sure, but the change was evident and he found himself adjusting to it rather quickly.

Every day he arose at 4:45 a.m., went downstairs in the dark to pour out a glass of water, and went back upstairs to wake Lovino up, even though there were alarm clocks installed in every room of the house and they always rang five minutes after Antonio arrived. The first time he did this, he received somewhat of a shock, because when he entered through the half-open door and came close to Lovino's bed, the actor suddenly opened his eyes and scared Antonio so much he almost dropped the glass.

"I - I'm so sorry!" he stammered as soon as he could regain his composure. "I didn't mean - "

"It's fine," said Lovino, with a slightly amused tone to his voice. "I get that a lot. You didn't know I'm a light sleeper?"

"No."

"Well, I am. Now you know. I haven't had a proper sleep since I was eleven, but that's irrelevant."

"Oh."

Lovino sat up and took the glass, draining it all at once, and set it on the bedside table. Antonio was suddenly aware of how rumpled his own clothes were and how the dark rings under his eyes must be showing again.

"I know what you're thinking," Lovino remarked suddenly. "You're thinking, 'Wow, that's sad,' aren't you? I can see it on your face, you know. But if you look at it my way, it's a way of living. A way of being prepared. Like jumping off a balcony and hitting the ground running."

Antonio didn't know what to say to that. By this time Lovino was already out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

"Make me coffee, won't you?" he said over his shoulder without slowing his pace. "Make it black, no sugar."

This became a regular start to their days, and after a while Antonio slowly got used to the fact that Lovino never really fell asleep. He probably did that to everyone to keep his assistants on their toes. But it was all right in the end - just another interesting thing about Lovino Vargas he'd never read about on Wikipedia.

With Lovino drinking his coffee and eating  _fette biscottate_ beside him, Antonio would access the actor's email and briefly comb through news sites, making sure to note for Lovino any interesting things going on around the world. Once they even stumbled upon an opinion article summarizing Bella's love life and her new prospects, not by the  _Times_ but by some tabloid magazine Antonio quickly forgot the name of.

"You've got to love tabloids," was Lovino's only comment. "They make excellent fuel for fireplaces when printed on paper."

Antonio also accompanied him for morning exercises, as Feli was a late sleeper and never rose until after eight A.M., or nine if he was lazy. It turned out to be a good thing they had an indoor gym, because, as Lovino mentioned, there were always reporters dressed as tourists ready to catch celebrities on camera the minute they stepped out their doors, especially if they were looking hot or scandalous, which would bring the tabloids large sums just because people always flocked to read gossip about their favorite stars. Antonio had some trouble following, since he'd always thought Lovino appreciated the attention. But Lovino only said that, after a while, anyone would get sick and tired of the media invading their lives.

"Don't take it personally - I just have a thing against reporters in general," he said, looking every inch a photographer's dream, with his bored expression, his towel around his neck, lean muscles showing through his white shirt and small beads of sweat at his brow after half an hour on the treadmill.

Afterward, because Antonio wasn't used to having breakfast that early, he would sit down for about fifteen minutes with Feliciano at the table, sometimes joined by Lovino if he was still hungry (which happened more often than not). Breakfast was always a quick and hurried affair - Antonio usually had something to do for Lovino and Feliciano followed his brother out of habit. But the younger Vargas, who claimed he was only younger by two minutes, often managed to engage Antonio in conversation and pried out of him small details about his previous job and life in New York. Out of the two, Antonio had to admit Feliciano was the more sympathetic. Lovino never had enough time to consider other people's wishes or stories, mostly because he was too busy tending to himself, in the manner peculiar to true celebrities.

Lovino would also leave in the afternoons or evenings for mostly undisclosed locations. The first time was for a dinner date with his old friend Roderich, whom Antonio knew from the papers as Roderich Edelstein, world-famous clothing designer. The other trips he was more secretive about - but Feliciano revealed that he had a soon-to-be girlfriend by the name of Carlota, who also happened to be a widely known supermodel. To Antonio that explained everything. But he didn't mind the actor's frequent absences, because his commanding presence made it hard to relax.

Another unexpectedly welcome aspect to life on the Vargas estate was the little grey ball of fur that assaulted Antonio from day one at the breakfast table. Feliciano called her Angie because the non-Italian name annoyed Lovino to no end, although Antonio had to agree that it fit her perfectly. Aside from jumping Antonio she also had an overwhelming affection for Lovino, who often spurned her advances; but once Antonio caught him quietly feeding her and stroking her ears and that was enough for him.

Angie also indirectly brought about a novel experience for Antonio. On the third day of the ex-reporter's employment, Feliciano abruptly decided that the poor creature was too lonely living in a house full of human males and that she'd need company - not in the form of another Pomeranian but a cat. No one could reason with him that only very young cats and dogs get along well; he was adamant.

"Go pick it up for him, Antonio, would you please?" Lovino asked in exasperation, not sparing himself the pleasure of an eye-roll towards his brother as he made the necessary online transactions.

So Antonio found himself in the most expensive pet shop in the city, surrounded by all sorts of exotic animals worth thousands of dollars, and the shopkeeper was handing him perhaps the most ordinary of them all in a little cage - the "decent-sized orange and white tabby" Feliciano had ordered. The cat looked about as eager to be sold as Antonio was to buy him.

And that was precisely when it happened. Antonio had just started explaining that he was here on Lovino's behalf and the pet shop owner had just gone online to authenticate the purchase when she entered. The first thing Antonio noticed was the perfume, a strong flowery scent he didn't recognize. Then he heard the click of heels on the tile and turned to see the vision of a woman standing behind him in a summery dress.

She had hair that shone gold under the light, dancing green eyes, and very red lips - all the details Antonio had failed to notice from the headline photo last Monday and every other picture before that. She must've heard him mention Lovino, because upon meeting his eyes she gave an imperceptible, almost knowing little smile that made Antonio's heart do somersaults in his chest.

"That's a nice-looking cat you've got there," she said in singsong tones, her lips forming wonderful shapes with the words. "Who knows, maybe he'll grow into a tiger one day."

Antonio didn't know what to say, but he did recover his wits enough to stop gaping and move aside for her. The shopkeeper quickly lost his haranguing air and immediately presented Bella with the pet she wanted - a grey Manx with sharp yellow eyes, which she took with a merry thanks. As she passed Antonio her mouth turned up and she winked ever so slightly, before exiting through the door with a whisk of sunny fabric.

Nearly forgetting the cage in his hand, Antonio raced out and just managed to catch sight of her stepping into a shiny red car. Then the motor revved and she was gone.

He stood there for a full five minutes, unaware of the cat banging angrily against the cage bars, eyes still fixed on the spot she had just left and wondering why on earth his heart was racing faster than it should be.

* * *

If Feliciano had been a girl and not a grown man, Antonio would've described the sound he made as an overjoyed squeal.

"There he is!" he shouted, and ran to embrace the cat, cage and all, while Antonio watched with surprise and Lovino with the look of someone who was used to such things and immensely bored by them.

"It's just a cat, Feli," said the actor, with Angie staring interestedly from his lap at the new arrival. Feliciano didn't listen, however, and lifted the cat out of his mobile home with all the care one would lavish upon a newborn. But he still hadn't thought of a name, and this fact was mentioned several minutes later.

"Help me, Antonio! Don't let Lovi think of one - it'll be Humphrey or Hubert for sure."

"Those aren't even good names," muttered Lovino. "As if I would have such bad taste."

They both observed Antonio, who suddenly felt the weight of the task upon him.

"Longfellow," he blurted without thinking, and Lovino stared at him in horror while Feliciano burst out laughing.

"Bravo, Antonio! That's perfect!"

And the name stuck, not because anyone especially approved of it but because the cat, upon hearing it, waved his long tail every time.

* * *

In his room that night, briefly safe from anyone's prying eyes and also aware that his door was unlocked, Antonio opened his suitcase and took out three battered blue notebooks bound by a single rubber band. On every cover he had written one word:  _Impressions._  He removed the final of the three, which was in slightly better condition, and opened it to a fresh page, disregarding all the writing before it.

For a long moment he stared at it, pen poised in hand, mind going through the various images of the day, and then he wrote quickly:  _hair like gold thread, eyes of liquid emerald, coral lips._ For some reason he felt slightly guilty - the first symptom of anyone having spent his life distanced from the opposite sex.

But no more novel turns of phrase came to him, no more inspiration. He remained sitting before the notebook for what seemed like an age, the blue lines starting to blur in his vision, but his mind was blank save the repeating image of the woman in his head. Finally he scrawled the date at the top of the page and closed the book, tying it back with the other two and shoving the whole thing back into his suitcase. Then he lay down on his bed and gazed at the ceiling, which resembled nothing so much as a miniature swirling ocean, and tiredly closed his eyes.

* * *

The next few days dawned bright and clear, the same as they had before and after. Antonio's routine was mostly the same, aside from the different conversations he had with Feliciano every morning, and the fact that in a few days the Vargas brothers would need help going over the scripts for  _Before Sunrise._ But to Antonio it still seemed a ways off.

He also slowly acquainted himself with the other servants in the house. The butler Hans was as distant and formal as ever, but Tino the chauffeur was friendly and the security guard Sadik always exchanged a few nice words with Antonio upon arriving every evening. There was also the cook Alfonso, who came from Sicily and whom Lovino had hired because he was the only other person in the house who appreciated Italian food - unlike Feliciano who was growing more Americanized by the day. They were a merry bunch, and Antonio enjoyed the sparse conversations he had with them.

This was why, on the fifth day of his work, he found himself noting with surprise that he actually rather liked life in this big house with its varied inhabitants. And between keeping Lovino company every morning, running errands for Feliciano around the city, chasing after Angie and Longfellow, and every so often remembering the marvelous woman Lovino had turned down over a week ago, Antonio realized he had no time left to be sad.


	4. problem number four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Lovino Vargas. Or what starts out as one, anyway.

He awoke in a familiar position: with his arm around a narrow soft waist and the sun tearing at his eyes. Carlota still appeared to be asleep, but her back was to him, and he couldn't see much of her face aside from a pale cheekbone peeking out through raven locks. She breathed evenly beneath his touch, with a sort of serene contentment he had never experienced even at such times.

Without really knowing what he was doing, Lovino pressed his nose into her hair and inhaled. The smell of what could be cherry blossoms pervaded his senses - a scent he knew so well he wished he didn't know it at all. Every single female he'd ever met had perfumed herself like this at some point. Why women loved imitating flowers was beyond him; for his part it made him sick.

Lovino let go of her and sat up. Carlota, who had actually been awake the whole time and waiting to see what he'd do, followed suit. Her jet-black hair was just as springy and playful as it had been the night before. Now it only made her face look wan and bony in the choked sunlight, her red lipstick not helping the sickly impression.

"Morning, Lovino," she greeted.

"Morning," he said carelessly, looking her over. A good deal of her beauty seemed to have vanished overnight. The soft, supple curves she'd presented by darkness looked more angular by day, and he recalled her mentioning some new diet to keep her figure intact. She was just the kind of woman he'd gotten used to being around: strict discipline on the outside, pure rebellion on the inside.

Lovino liked that in women - in anyone, actually. Or he thought he did anyway.

Delicate fingers encircled his wrist, each nail painted the color of blood. "You're being awfully quiet, Lovino," he heard Carlota say, though it sounded far away. "Something wrong?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Will you stay for breakfast this time?" Her voice took on the heightened inflection of a pleading woman, the kind that used to move him without actually saying much. "It gets lonely without you around."

"I can't today." Lovino fished out his clothes from the pile on the floor and began putting them on. "What day is it again?"

"Monday. You're getting forgetful, darling. Why?"

"Nothing much. I have my first rehearsal today. As in, script reading."

"Oh, that? With Bella too, huh? But you'll do fine, don't worry." She made a dismissive gesture, highlighting her slender arm in all its grace. "You're Lovino Vargas - it all comes naturally to you, doesn't it?"

She kissed his cheek. He could feel some of her lipstick clinging to his skin.

"Be my girlfriend," he said impulsively.

Carlota observed him with wide honey-brown eyes, and then let out a surprised laugh, like bells tinkling. "Isn't it a bit early though? My ex is still calling me and shit, and you with Bella on your tail... I'd rather not have any rumors going out yet." She ruffled his hair with that fond expression that had so captivated him before, but now had no effect upon him. "Soon, darling. Soon. All right?"

"Yeah. It's fine."

They ended up showering separately. That, of course, was just fine with Lovino, who for once wanted to be alone for a few minutes. Carlota surprised him by making it downstairs first; she was already in the living room when he passed through, still pulling on his jacket. He went over and put his arm around her. Somehow, with makeup on, she had become beautiful again.

"See you later," he said and kissed her mouth, which tasted of lemon and general tangy citrus. She half laughed, half returned the kiss, putting her hands on his chest in a show of fending him off. Her waist felt so small and fragile in his grasp that it was impossible to really hold her, and for a fleeting moment he realized with true pity that she would never bear children. Least of all his own.

But what did that matter?

Lovino let go of her and stepped back with a smile already in place. "Don't get too bored while I'm gone, all right?"

"I won't." She always looked just like a doll when she grinned. "Don't you worry."

He left without further comment.

* * *

Feliciano and Antonio had already started in on breakfast when he returned. Still, they'd left a plate for Lovino, which he found considerate of them, until he saw what was on it. His stomach turned only halfheartedly at the bacon, eggs, and toast; he sat down without greeting anyone, picked idly at the food for a minute, then started shoveling it down. It all tasted like paper. He could feel Antonio watching him quietly from across the table.

"Lovi - where were you yesterday?" asked Feliciano, breaking the oppressive silence that had fallen upon Lovino's arrival. "You were gone the whole day. And you didn't answer any of my calls."

"I was just..." Lovino waved his hand vaguely. "Places." They both knew there was only one possible place he'd been to, and that not picking up the phone had been a conscious choice. Perhaps Antonio knew too, judging by his silence, but what did he care?

"Well... are you feeling okay, Lovi? You don't look very..."

"I'm _fine_." Lovino ate more emphatically. "Why wouldn't I be?"

At that his brother looked abashed, which wasn't helping the general mood. Lovino had a sudden, irrational urge to laugh. They were such a dysfunctional family.

"Sorry... I just thought you looked tired," Feli said faintly. "You should get more sleep."

"Will do."

Having finished off his breakfast, Lovino had no other reason to remain at the table, so he let the servants collect his plate and left the dining room for his study upstairs, where he could at least be alone. For an instant, as he passed the pantry, he remembered his wine cellar and how much he'd missed his alcohol since hiring Antonio; not drinking in his presence had become a priority, since that had instigated everything. But now Lovino wanted nothing more than to forget all his minor annoyances that weren't quite minor before they blossomed into large headaches, and he knew of no better alternative.

Deep in his own unpleasant thoughts, he barely heard the footsteps trailing behind until Antonio was practically in front of him.

"L - uh, Lovino... is there anything you would like me to do for you?"

Politeness was beyond him at the moment; he wondered how Antonio managed it at all hours. Lovino took a second to recover and think. Antonio's eyes were refreshingly green and sincere.

"Well... I do have something going on with the scripts today," he admitted reluctantly.

"Oh, yes, of course. I remember you telling me last week." They reached the study and Antonio paused, eyes briefly flitting across Lovino's face. "Would you like some coffee first? Or anything else to drink?"

 _One bottle of 2007 Fiano, here's the key to the cellar, make it quick,_ Lovino wanted to say. But instead he answered, surprisingly thankful at having been asked, "I'll take the coffee. Thanks."

Antonio went back downstairs and Lovino, unable to help himself, watched his retreating form. There was a certain grace to Antonio's movements, his height notwithstanding, that went very well with his agreeable face and soft tones of voice. Even if he  _had_ been a reporter for the most repulsive newspaper in Lovino's view, he must have been the nicest one there. No question.

And something else about him - he seemed to lack the emotion of surprise. One would think working for a celebrity might inspire some sort of admiration or adoration, but Antonio showed none of it, if he felt it at all. On the contrary, he'd seemed more amazed by the simple room they showed him than by the twin famous faces hovering around him every day.

Unconsciously Lovino shook his head. This assistant of his was simply a goldmine of quirks. Though it could all just be an act, after all...

He went inside and pulled out from his desk drawer the heavy stack of papers. Thirty-two pages front and back; an entire film, a compression of human experience, within his own two hands. A child he'd help bring to life for the world to see. But he knew nothing about being a father, aside from the multiple times he'd acted as one, which had just been reciting lines. For years his life had been dictated by scripts, by assigned roles, by public expectation - how he  _should_ act,  _should_ say,  _should_ do.

Therein lay the essence of Lovino Vargas, he reflected - being everything at once, and nothing at all.

"Lovi?"

Again with appropriate timing, Feliciano entered the room, having noticed how the lights were still off, and stopped near Lovino.

"Lovi, please just talk to me. What's going on?"

"Nothing." Lovino had just detected a whiff of Carlota's perfume on his jacket, and went across the hall to toss it on his bed. While he was at it he pulled off his shirt and put on a new one. Feli did not spare him any privacy.

"I asked Antonio to make me coffee too, so he'll be busy for another few minutes," he tried. "Come on, talk to me, Lovi. What happened yesterday? Did you break up with Carlota?"

"No."

"Did she - "

"Nothing, okay?" Lovino nearly shouted, before lowering his voice just in time. "She's not even my girlfriend! We're just friends with benefits and we'll probably always be. Why is that so important to you?"

Feliciano's face fell; the sight of it hurt even more than any refusal he'd ever known. "I - That's not what I meant, Lovi! So I can't even care about my own brother now?" He took a few indignant steps forward. "We've been apart twenty-five years, Lovi -  _twenty-five_! I don't want us to be strangers anymore!"

"We're not, Feli. I just - " Lovino didn't have the strength to push past him and leave, and leaned against the door jamb for support. "Please. I don't want to talk about anything right now."

He could feel Feliciano's hand on his shoulder.

"Lovi... I'm sorry. I didn't - "

"Don't apologize, it's not your fault. Let's go. I'm done here."

In the hall they ran into Antonio, holding two mugs of still-steaming coffee. If he had heard them, he showed no sign of it; they went into the study together.

"Thanks," said Lovino, taking his drink and slapping him on the back. "Now we can start."

* * *

It took a lot of verbal fumbling on Antonio's part and some visual improvisation on Feliciano and Lovino's end, but they managed to get through the first few scenes without much difficulty.

The storyline itself was quite simple - an American man named Jesse and a Frenchwoman named Céline meeting by chance on a train, then spending a night in Vienna conversing about their lives. Jesse's role was enjoyable enough - for Feliciano because he was simply the understudy, and for Lovino as long as he didn't think about acting romantic with Bella. He already had the lines down pat. Antonio, meanwhile, made a decent Céline despite the fact that he looked nothing like one, and his terrible attempt at a French accent was almost enough to make Lovino laugh.

"Where are you from, anyway?" Lovino inquired, having detected a hint of foreign inflection in Antonio's English but unable to pinpoint it.

"Spain."

"Ah." Lovino glanced quickly over at him; Antonio's Mediterranean features confirmed the statement. "I've been there before. Everyone's really friendly and the food's wonderful." He didn't bother mentioning the women, since they were a given. "It's a great country in general."

"Yes, it is."

"So you grew up there?" Feliciano wondered aloud. "And came over here to study?"

"Yes," said Antonio. Something in his face told Lovino he didn't feel like talking. It was time to change the subject. He checked his watch and frowned.

"Damn rehearsal's in an hour," he muttered.

"Want me to go in your place, Lovi?" asked Feli immediately. "The first parts are cheerful enough, I could manage them. You look tired."

"No, it's okay. I feel like having a word with Bella before we start."

Worry began to show in Feliciano's face again. "Don't say anything nasty, though. Since you guys'll be working together and all."

"Of course not. And Antonio, you're coming with me."

Antonio visibly jolted in his seat, his eyes wide.

" _Me_?"

"Yes, you. I don't know if they'll need any help there, but you might as well get to know how things work."

"But then I'll be lonely," complained Feliciano, the very picture of abject despair. "I like talking to Antonio. He actually understands all my jokes. And he laughs at them, too."

"Well, you'll have to start telling funnier ones then, because I've heard them all a hundred times. No buts - Antonio's coming with me. Besides, you already told me you had plans."

"I did?" Feliciano frowned and then colored slightly. "I wasn't actually serious, you know. I just planned to go watch a few movies here and there."

"With?"

"No one," said Feliciano so quickly that Lovino became instantly suspicious. But he had no time to ask, because just then his phone buzzed. He pulled it out and read the text on the screen.

_Good afternoon, dear Lovi! Ready for rehearsals yet? I can't wait to see you again at Jones's house :)_

At the bottom was a woman's name he knew all too well. Lovino had to fight off the sudden urge to hurl his phone across the room, and shoved it in his pocket instead, wondering why he hadn't blocked her number sooner. Certainly not because he'd been waiting for her to contact him.

If Bella expected this to end like the past three times they had separated and made up again, she was sadly mistaken. Very much so, in fact.

"Go and get ready," he barked at Antonio as he stormed out of the room with large angry strides. "We're leaving right away."

* * *

Alfred Jones, executive director, welcomed them into his house with the most genuine smile Lovino had seen in many days. Despite the fact that Antonio was only an assistant, the director still shook his hand with characteristic warmth.

"A pleasure," Lovino could hear him saying. "You guys help make everything work."

Antonio caught up with him not long after, looking slightly mollified, and they entered the crowd that had begun to form in Alfred's living room. With no effort at all Lovino caught sight of Bella's blonde hair in the very center, and made a mental note to avoid looking in that direction as much as possible. But it was too late - the woman had already spotted him, the way a hunter lights upon a defenseless deer.

"Lovino!" she exclaimed, leaving the actors and actresses around her and approaching with undue haste. Under the light her dress glittered cerulean, a color she wore especially well, but it only managed to blind Lovino when he turned to meet her. Almost everyone's eyes were on them now; Lovino quickly resigned himself to feigning friendship.

"Bella," he greeted and patted her shoulder in the most friendly manner possible. Acting at its best - he would only have to keep it up for a few more months. His sparkly ex-girlfriend smiled and, none too surprisingly, leaned into him with an affection he didn't feel.

"I'm so excited!" she declared, her voice so high and cheerful it hurt his ears. "Aren't you, Lovino? This is going to be great, I know it! And oh, who's this?"

She gestured toward Antonio, who had frozen upon being noticed; Bella tended to have that effect on poor unsuspecting males. Lovino decided to be the gentleman and save him before it was too late.

"That's Antonio, my new assistant."

"Oh, how wonderful! It's very nice to meet you," Bella gushed, opening her eyes especially wide, and shaking his hand in what felt like an overly friendly manner. Completely uncalled-for. Antonio turned a shade of red Lovino had never seen before, and mumbled something that sounded like "It's nice to meet you too"; by the time Alfred arrived on the scene he had vanished into the crowd.

The man certainly had some great maneuvering skills under his belt. Lovino found himself wishing he could do the same too, but before he could even attempt it he was interrupted by the director.

"Hello everyone!" Alfred shouted above the chatter of the film crew and the actors already present. "It's getting late and we need to start! If you could all form a circle here - " And he set about clearing a space by the fireplace where everyone could stand without jostling each other. It was a tough job. Lovino took the opportunity to distinctly detach himself from Bella; she drew back with a momentary look of hurt and realization before reverting to her former smiling self, and she didn't follow him when he moved away.

There. That would teach her to glue herself onto him in front of everyone else. Women were always so frustratingly dense; they made his head hurt.

In the end Lovino found himself standing between a young glasses-bearing brunette with a minor part in the train scene and a reedy man with the role of a homeless poet. As expected, they immediately recognized the great presence in their midst.

"Lovino Vargas," breathed the woman with an adoring look that definitely wasn't exaggeration, and shook his hand for so long he nearly sighed with relief when she finally let go. "It's such an honor to be working with you!"

"The same goes for me," said the poet. "I've watched all your movies!"

Just then introductions began and Lovino was spared the pain of answering; all he had to do was say his name and everyone fell silent. He threw a quick glance around the circle in such a way that no one noticed, but Antonio wasn't there. Finally Lovino spotted him in a row of chairs against the wall with a couple of other assistants, mostly young women, talking quietly with them. At least he appeared to be enjoying himself - unlike Lovino.

"It's a real pleasure to see all of you here today!" exclaimed Alfred right then, his cheerful booming voice overriding all of theirs. "Personally I have very high hopes for this film, since it's not something people have seen before, and I hope you'll all work with me to make this a success. I'm going to distribute scripts now, so if you don't have one, please speak up!"

Lovino already had his, and he'd taken the trouble to highlight all his lines. But here came the hard part - approaching Bella again. Luckily she had started floating toward him, requiring minimal work on his part, and when Alfred called everyone into their positions they were standing near each other at the ready.

"Husband, wife, start arguing! In German!" shouted Alfred to the middle-aged duo starting the scene.

So the story began. And Lovino, horrible mood aside, couldn't help but feel caught up in the action of which he was a central part.

* * *

Night had begun to fall, and they had just reached the scene where Céline and Jesse were supposed to request a romantic poem from the homeless poet. He in turn would ask them what word they wanted him to include. Bella was standing uncomfortably close again, but her cheerfulness had dissipated in her fatigue, and even Lovino's half-smile was beginning to wobble.

The actor playing the poet, whose name Lovino had already forgotten, glanced at his lines and frowned. "Director, I think this is wrong."

Alfred shot out from the seat where he'd been observing them. "It's  _wrong_?"

"Yeah. This isn't the right poem - Jesse and Céline clearly asked for one with the word 'milkshake' in it, but this doesn't have it."

Alfred went over and took the script from him, eyes widening in shock as he read the offending passage. "You're right, this can't be the correct one. Whoever sent us the script must have made a mistake. But that's strange, though... they told me this was the most updated copy."

"It's a pretty ridiculous mistake," commented the poet-actor.

"It is... if I can't find the original one I'll have to contact them. Let's just skip this part for now. I'll get back to you on this tomorrow, and if worst comes to worst maybe someone will write us a new one."

They went on. Lovino was getting tired as hell, but he'd done this thousands of times, keeping alert even when he didn't feel like it for the sake of a character who only existed on the screen. Though Jesse and Céline still had a whole lot more talking to do and kisses to exchange and fake phone calls to stage to each other, the actual performance had thankfully been left for the next day.

By the time Alfred ended the rehearsal and dismissed them with thanks, Lovino supposed that if he were to sit down on any sofa or chair or seating implement he would instantly fall asleep without the aid of alcohol. Stoically resisting the impulse, he set about dodging the departing guests instead, searching for Antonio. But a rude interruption stopped him in the form of someone tugging on his arm.

"Lovino," whispered Bella next to his ear. Too close. "Lovino, do you have a minute?"

"What is it?" he said, not bothering to be polite now that no one was watching them, and only barely defying the instinct to pull away. "I need to go."

She appeared subdued, mascara-laden eyes lowering. Her lips were so blindingly red it hurt to see them. "I was wondering if we could talk. When you're free. Maybe tomorrow if you have time?"

Lovino only just managed to hide his disbelief and outrage. What the  _hell_ did she think she -

"I have plans," he muttered none too kindly, and wrenched his arm out of her grasp. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get home."

He left her without much guilt and found Antonio in his original spot, asleep this time, head lolling slightly to one side. Two small blondes sitting nearby fled precipitously upon seeing Lovino, without even bothering to wake him up. The actor approached and observed him closely. With his eyes closed and his guarded expression gone, Antonio looked several years younger and much more vulnerable - truthfully, quite pleasant to behold. Lovino wanted to watch him for several more minutes, but felt too much like he was standing guard, so at last he settled for shaking Antonio awake. The Spaniard's eyes flew open and when he realized who had woken him, he jumped up and began apologizing hastily.

"Oh no, I - I'm really sorry, Lovino, I didn't mean to fall asleep when I was supposed to be helping out, it won't happen again, I'm sorry, I - "

"Relax, it's all right," said Lovino, who was too exhausted to mind and actually finding the apology rather cute. "Let's go. It's late already."

* * *

For the first few minutes of the car ride back, they were quiet - mostly because Lovino was checking for any trailing cars and Antonio seemed intent on memorizing the Lamborghini's interior. Finally Lovino, in danger of suffocating in silence, decided to speak first. There was a first time for everything after all.

"Sorry I didn't have anything for you to do," he said, for lack of better things to talk about. "You must've been bored out of your mind."

"No, not at all. I enjoyed watching the rehearsal. You were really good with your role."

Lovino felt a little better, and was glad the dark momentarily masked his face. There was no reason why he should find Antonio's quiet praise so satisfying, but it completely differed from the shameless adulation he'd always received. Compared to the crazed fans who climbed hotel walls and tried to jump him whenever he left places, the Spaniard was virtually an angel.

They reached a red light, and Lovino took advantage of the pause to sneak a peek at Antonio's face. To his surprise, in the dim yellow glow of the streetlights, with his dark hair and pale face and wide tired green eyes, Antonio looked distinctly unhappy.

"Did anyone give you a hard time?" Lovino asked before he could stop himself.

"No... I was just tired. I didn't mean to fall asleep though."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it." The red light changed to green and Lovino refocused his eyes on the road. "Were there other assistants there?"

"Yeah. Mostly ladies, though."

"Pick up any chicks?" Somehow he couldn't quite imagine that happening.

Antonio chuckled. He sounded slightly embarrassed. "Well, I like talking to ladies, but nothing like that."

An uncomfortable pause took over.  _Since when did I get this bad at conversation?_  Lovino wondered.

Thankfully Antonio proved tactful enough to break it. "... I heard there was something wrong with the poem."

"There was, yeah. Apparently someone put a different poem into the script, or it was just wrong from the very beginning. People are getting so lazy now, I swear."

"They are. Some of them, anyway."

"I do hope they get that fixed," muttered Lovino. "Or else the screenplay writers will have some major explaining to do. And we'll have to get someone to write another one."

"As long as they put the word 'milkshake' in it, that's fine, right?"

"Yep. Funny word, but that's the way the screenplay was written. Poems make me sick though - especially love poems."

"Because they're too romantic?" Either Antonio's voice had a wry edge to it or Lovino was just imagining things.

"Kind of, I guess." He studied the rushing lights of the cars up ahead - multicolored and blurred and obscure as the many people inside them. "The poets who write them never really mean them. Or the people reading them, for that matter. They're just tons of clichés mashed together."

"The people or the poems?"

"Both. They're both clichés. They all sound like fakes after a while."

"Have you ever read an original one?"

"No." Lovino shrugged. "I'd love to, but it's useless to hope."

"Oh. Well, I see."

By that time they had reached the Vargas mansion, and Lovino parked the car in the garage next to Feliciano's red Ferrari. When they went out, the cool darkness embraced them like an old friend, guiding them to the lighted front door where the butler was waiting. Somewhere during that time Antonio had fallen silent, a faraway expression having entered his eyes.

"Penny for your thoughts," offered Lovino.

Antonio met his eyes and smiled a small smile that turned out rather mysterious. "Just... the screenplay. I can't stop thinking about it. It was so good."

Having gotten his answer, Lovino promptly forgot about it, until he passed by Antonio's room on the way to his own and noticed him writing at his desk with a look of intense concentration. Even then he didn't realize Antonio might've been hiding something else - until the next morning, when they checked his email together and found a message from Alfred, telling everyone that an issue had arisen over the poem and that they'd need someone creative to rewrite it.

And Lovino, watching Antonio read, saw the Spaniard's eyes suddenly light up in a way that he'd never seen before, in a way that made him look very handsome. A minute of silence came and went before Antonio turned to him.

"Lovino," he said. "About the poem... I actually thought of one yesterday. I was wondering if you'd mind reading it?"

"Sure. No problem."

He followed Antonio to the doorway of his room and watched while the Spaniard pulled out a piece of lined paper, slightly messy around the edges and creased with eraser marks, from his desk drawer. Antonio held the paper for a minute, a bit of embarrassment clouding his face, then handed it to Lovino.

"I thought it would have to be romantic. Since Céline and Jesse asked for it together, and I felt that the poet would want to write something describing them. And you did say you've never read an original one before, so I wanted to give it a try."

Lovino smoothed out the folds in the paper and stood there in the doorway, the light from Antonio's room spread across the paper. But it was nothing compared to the light hitting his eyes from the words, which - messy and occasionally lopsided though they were - caught him from the beginning and didn't let go.

 _Daydream delusion_  
_limousine eyelash_  
_Oh baby with your pretty face_  
_drop a tear in my wineglass_  
_Look at those big eyes on your face_  
_see what you mean to me_  
_Sweet cakes and milk shakes_  
_I'm a delusion angel_  
_I'm a fantasy parade_  
_I want you to know what I think_  
_don't want you to guess anymore_  
_You have no idea where I came from_  
_we have no idea where we're going_  
_Lodged in life_  
_like two branches in a river_  
_flowing downstream_  
_caught in the current_  
_I'll carry you you carry me_  
_that's how it could be_  
_don't you know me_  
_don't you know me by now_

"... Did you like it?" Antonio asked anxiously. Lovino lowered the paper and glanced from the words to Antonio, then back again, unable to help a frown. The words kept swirling around inside, somewhere close to his heart, and try as he might he could make no sense of them.

"Did you write all that yourself?"

Antonio blinked. "Yes... last night. I hope it's fitting enough for the movie..."

Lovino looked at him for a long time without saying anything, because he didn't know what to say. Luckily he was spared the trouble of answering, as a playful shove from behind nearly pitched him into Antonio. Of course his brother was the culprit.

"Lovi! Antonio! What're you guys doing?"

"Uh... I tried writing a poem for the screenplay and Lovino's reading it for me. Because they need a new poem."

"Really?" Feliciano watched them both in growing excitement. "You  _wrote_ one, Antonio? An actual poem?"

"Yes, I - "

"May I read it? Please?"

"Yes."

Lovino quietly handed his brother the paper. Upon setting his eyes to the words Feliciano immediately became still. He didn't move again until he had reached the bottom of the page, and even then he stayed silent for a minute or two more, mouthing the words to himself.

"This..." He gazed searchingly at Antonio. "This is beautiful. It's  _perfect_! We should tell the director right away!"

"We should," said Lovino. "I don't think anyone else could have written something like this."

They both turned to the Spaniard. Barely able to manage a thrilled "Thank you," Antonio blushed a deep red instead, the color of young strawberries under a morning sun. And Lovino, who had never once seen anything like this, fell under the spell without even realizing it.


	5. take five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Messes are made, both intentionally and otherwise. Lovino may or may not be involved. Antonio, meanwhile, ends up in the middle of everything.

_Dear Gil and Franny,_ he typed slowly, as Longfellow's whiskers tickled the underside of his arm.  _How have you guys been? I'm doing fine. It was a little hectic here the first week or so, but things have settled down now so I can write to you in detail._

_I have Sundays off and sometimes Saturday, like today. Lovino's friendly to me and doesn't order me around too often. Mostly, besides helping out around the house, I follow him around when he goes to shoot his movie, and to be honest it's like getting a free ticket. I love it. I even wrote a poem for the screenplay and they're crediting me too! I wish so much I could tell you all about it, but I have to keep quiet for a few more months. But I promise I'll spill everything once the movie comes out._

_Lovino talks to me more now. His brother -_ he quickly deleted the sentence and started over -  _He's really not how the papers depict him at all, he's a pretty easy guy to get along with. I feel like people judge celebrities too much on the basis of money and fame. He's just a regular guy underneath it all, with his strengths and flaws like everyone else, and he appreciates my help, which is enough for me._

Antonio rested his fingers awhile and stared at the screen, completely dissatisfied. The whole thing had the feeling of a dictated letter and he couldn't do a thing about it.

 _I still miss you guys,_ he started in a fit of emotion,  _and I'm sorry I can't send you pictures and such, except of myself, because Lovino appreciates his privacy and I have to respect that. Here's a picture of me so you know I'm okay. I know I can't Skype as much as I'd like since his room is nearby, but if you guys have time I'll try it next week, and leave the house to do it if I can._

_I hope you're doing fine without me. Keep me updated on whatever's going on so I won't have to worry. I'll come back and visit as soon as possible; I think I could do that in a couple more weeks, since there won't be much going on. Even if Lovino's all right, he can't replace you guys at all since we've known each other so much longer. And you've been there for me all the time. I still have your favorite song as my ringtone, Gil. And Francis, I think of you every time the cook serves French food (which can't beat yours). I just miss you guys a lot and I hope you know that. I've been keeping up with your news articles tooasdfvg-_

"Longfellow!" he said, half laughing and half disapproving, as the cat strolled across his keyboard. "I'm working on something here!"

But Longfellow didn't like his fun interrupted, and went on making his mark in Antonio's writing with the utmost gravity. The Spaniard had to physically lift him off and set him on the floor, because next to the laptop the cat couldn't resist. He was now reduced to strutting angrily across Antonio's feet, fur bristling and blue-grey eyes glaring, before reverting to his claws.

"Hey!" Antonio shouted, dodging the swipe Longfellow took at him, and temporarily distracted from correcting feline-induced mistakes. "Stop that - I'll have to put you outside whether you like it or not!"

He was stopped short again, but this time by three quick knocks on the door. Longfellow promptly darted off like a silent arrow, and Antonio lost sight of him under the bed. The door swung inward at a slight angle to give him a view of Lovino's inquiring face.

"Antonio, are you busy right now? Could I come in?"

"Oh - yes, of course!" Antonio opened the door for him. Lovino entered quietly and frowned. They both looked toward Longfellow exercising his claws on the chair leg and gearing up for another hairball. The actor grimaced at the sight.

"Why Feli loves cats so much is beyond me," he muttered. "Let's get him out of here before he destroys your room."

Once Longfellow had been safely kicked out and supplied with kitty toys, including the all-important scratching post, Lovino resumed his place at the door-jamb, his eyes never leaving Antonio as he did so.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" asked Antonio with faint unease.

"Yes, but - I interrupted you." Lovino waved a hand toward the computer. "Were you almost done with that? Just go ahead and send it, this can wait another minute."

Perhaps Lovino was being this lenient because it was Saturday. He remained still in the doorway, watching as the Spaniard put the finishing touches to his email with  _Lots of love, Antonio_ and sent it to both Gilbert and Francis. He did not ask about the message contents or make any visible effort to read it. He simply waited until Antonio was done, which was less than a minute, and then he cleared his throat again.

"I know it's your day off," he began, "and I'd have asked Feli if he were here, but if you don't mind doing me a favor... could you go and meet someone for me?"

"Meet someone?" repeated Antonio. At that point it still hadn't occurred to him that celebrities could have their own substitutes in sticky situations.

"Yes," said Lovino, a little awkwardly. "I can't do it since I have to leave soon. And anyway this person's been annoying me for a while. I don't want to see her at all today, especially not at a restaurant where people would get the wrong idea. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, and it's no problem." Antonio's heart had leapt upon hearing the word  _her_ , and he suddenly had a strong hunch who this "someone" might be. "Should I go now?"

Lovino looked visibly relieved. "Yes, please. The time was set for - well, I'll write it all down for you. Just get ready and I'll give you the note after."

He left for his room while Antonio stared into his closet, wondering what in the world he should wear to impress a female celebrity (or, all else failing, at least look decent in her eyes). In the end, as he had no other choice, he settled for the suit he'd bought with a fifth of his monthly savings, the day before his final plane trip. It was nothing compared to the close-fitting Italian suits Lovino often wore and looked amazing in, but at least he wouldn't put the actor to shame now. Hopefully.

As he'd feared, he couldn't tell if Lovino actually approved. "That'll do," was all he said after looking Antonio over, and pressed a folded slip of paper into the Spaniard's hand. His fingers were warm and dry but just as rough as they always were. "Don't lose this - it has her name, the restaurant location, the meeting time and what you should say for me. Oh, and here's money so you can pay for what she orders, so she won't think I'm a jerk." Lovino smiled wryly. "Though I doubt she'll want much. And if you really need help you can text me, but only if you can do it secretly. Tino's waiting for you outside."

Antonio accepted the instructions, thanked him and went out through the front door. A sleek black limo sat idling at the curb, his friend the chauffeur at the wheel. Lovino stood in the doorway to watch him go, and when Antonio peered back out the window he gave a short wave. Antonio barely had time to wave back before Tino sped off, leaving the Vargas mansion far behind.

It was a surprisingly smooth ride, though Antonio had to admit he'd never been in a limo before. He felt rather alone in the midst of empty plush leather seats, clearly intended for at least five rich people; he didn't know what to do with the wines in the cooler either, and preferred not to open the windows. Then he remembered the note, took it out of his pocket, and unfolded it.

The contents weren't too surprising:

_Bella Peeters_

_The Ivy Restaurant_

_11:00 a.m._

_If she asks, tell her I'm busy this whole week. Give any proper excuse you can._

_(Don't spare her feelings. Thanks.)_

Antonio couldn't help a wry smile. This was typical Lovino, all right. And yet... what of the blonde nymph waiting in the restaurant, hopeful to see  _him_  and not Antonio?

"We're almost there," Tino announced through the partition. "Are you ready, Antonio?"

"Yeah. Ready as I'll ever be."

"Just keep your cool," said Tino cheerfully. "I've seen them all - aside from pretty faces they're nothing much. Lovino Vargas and Bella Peeters are exactly the same."

 _But that's where you're wrong,_ thought Antonio.  _There's a fundamental difference between them._ Instead he said, "He's telling me to break her heart. What do I do?"

"Relax, Toni!" laughed the chauffeur. "If she's got one still, it probably won't suffer for long, much less break." Then his tone changed, and not for the better. "Is that personal concern I hear?"

" _No_!" Antonio suddenly felt grateful for the partition. "I just want to do the right thing - I mean, I really don't think she deserves - "

"You like her, don't you?" The smile in Tino's voice grew ever louder with Antonio's choked attempts at replies. "Look here, Toni, this might be crushing but it's useless to fall for people like that. Just face it: you don't even know her. None of them are worth it, do you hear me?"

"… All right. Are we there yet?"

"Yep. Good luck, man. Remember, if there's any heart damage to be done, Lovino's probably beaten you there already."

Antonio didn't have an answer to that, and exited not knowing what to expect. So of course he was surprised.

He certainly hadn't been expecting such a cozy-looking restaurant setting, for one, but then again it was Bella and certain things about her suggested warm and cozy. The red bricks reminded him of merry winter fireplaces, crisscrossed by tracks of ivy, from which the restaurant took its name. Around the outside several pristine white tables and chairs had been set up, shaded by umbrellas which waved softly in the wind, everything separated from the street by a white wooden fence. The standard midmorning crowd had taken up many of the seats; but Antonio had no trouble finding the beautiful blonde sitting alone at a corner table.

His heart in his mouth, he went up the short staircase and took a right turn towards the tables. Bella spotted him right away. Something like annoyance flashed in her green eyes for a split second, but then it was gone and she had risen to meet him, her snowy white dress a camouflage among the décor. He had probably been imagining things.

"Oh, it's you!" she exclaimed, still as cheerful as ever. "Antonio, right? Nice to see you again."

Almost lost for words, Antonio managed to return the greeting and they sat down, Bella across from him. A waiter approached, but Antonio didn't count on staying long and chose not to make an order. Bella stirred her coffee and watched him with an observant and calculating edge to her gaze.

"So, you're here on Lovino's behalf, aren't you?" she said pointedly. "Is he busy right now?"

There was no use beating around the bush. "Yes - he wasn't able to make it so he sent me here in his place. He's busy this whole week."

"Well, that's unfortunate..." Bella continued stirring; the tinkle of her spoon grew somewhat more pronounced. Then she leaned forward a little, giving Antonio the sudden, uncomfortable sensation of being interrogated. So this was how it felt at the other end of a mic, with a journalist opposite you. "When  _did_  you start working for him anyway?"

"… Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering," she said airily. "I've read the news too - you're Antonio Carriedo, if I'm not mistaken? Former reporter for the  _Times,_ fired due to some small misunderstanding? And then Lovino hired you, am I correct?"

Once again his former career had come back to haunt him. Antonio thought he'd better get used to it. "I don't see how that's relevant," he tried, but Bella cut him off.

"It might not seem that way to you, but I know my Lovino." She smiled a not quite pleasant smile, teeth very white in the sunlight. If voices could blind, her high cheery words would have done that by now. "Oh, Lovino - he gets involved in things even if he doesn't mean to, and he always, _always_  messes up. It's the covering up part that stumps him. He just doesn't understand that he can't manage alone, that he has to stop keeping everything to himself, because that doesn't  _work_. What he needs is someone to keep him in check, someone to minister to him when things get rough, so he doesn't get out of hand. Do you see what I mean?"

Antonio didn't at all, and he wasn't liking the turn this was taking. "Sure."

"Anyway, speaking of Lovino - why didn't he come today? Is he seeing someone else, by any chance?"

"No, not that I know of."

A note of urgency had crept into Bella's voice. "Did he drop any hints? Does he still talk about me at all? Or is he just scared of seeing me?" The actress's beautiful face contorted into a frown, a small and disagreeable one. "If he felt the slightest compassion for me, he'd at least have told me he couldn't come. But he never replied to anything I sent him. Did he say anything before he sent you here? Tell me."

By this time Antonio had had enough.

"I don't know why you're asking me all this," he said, as calmly as he could. "I don't know Lovino as well as you assume, and like you said, he's not the kind of person to spill his secrets. But no matter what he's my employer, and if you're going to ask me personal questions about him, I'm afraid I can't really answer them."

"Oh. That's fine too." Clearly Bella hadn't been expecting such an answer. She sighed, at once looking older than her twenty-five years, then stood up. "Well, I guess I'd better get going. Maybe I'll see him at the rehearsal, who knows. And maybe he'll speak to me then. I don't know. I don't know why it's always misunderstanding after misunderstanding with him. He always finds fault with me. But I always hope... maybe I just hoped too much this time."

For a second she looked like she might cry, and Antonio was lost. But she quickly recovered herself.

"I hope you'll forgive me for being so abrupt," she said. "Only Lovino's been on my mind so much lately, and he's enough to drive anyone mad." Antonio noticed her reach into her purse, and remembered the money Lovino had given him.

"I'll pay," he offered and Bella smiled, a more genuine-seeming smile than before.

"Thanks," she said. "And thank Lovino for me too. If we meet again, I hope it's under better circumstances. You're much too decent a man to be involved in such business."

She patted his arm, her fingers lingering a bit longer on the suit fabric than he would have liked. Every single nail had been painted red. Antonio didn't like how the color looked against her skin. He watched as she went down the steps to the sidewalk, entered a shiny red car, and shut the door quickly. But it was all too easy to spot a man's outline in the driver's seat, someone much bigger and taller than Lovino. Then the motor revved and they were gone.

When he finally returned to the limo, Tino gave him a concerned once-over.

"How did it go?" he asked as Antonio climbed into the back.

"Just fine," the Spaniard answered tiredly, pulling out the piece of paper again and letting it crinkle in his fingers as the limo sped off.  _Don't spare her feelings._ "It went just fine."

"You feeling okay?"

"Just fine."

But Antonio couldn't help looking back out the window again, back at the warm genuine restaurant where the illusion of a perfect woman celebrity had crumbled at his feet.

 _There's a fundamental difference between them,_ he had thought of Bella and her former beau. And yet. How much of that was true now? How had he been so naïve?

Unable to answer himself, for the first time that day he let out a sigh: a sigh very much like Lovino's, like Bella's, like those of anyone with certain power and certain wealth and yet, ironically, uncertain happiness.

* * *

"You're back," said Lovino, rising from the couch to meet him. A wineglass and empty bottle sat on the table before him. "How did it go?"

Antonio rummaged around for the money, which he hadn't used at all, and gave it back. He had paid with his own.

"It went just fine."

"Yeah?" Lovino relaxed visibly. "What did she say?"

"Not much. She wasn't happy that you were absent. But she didn't argue the fact that you were busy."

"Did she ask why I wasn't there?"

"Yeah, but I didn't give her a straight answer. I didn't have to. I think she got the point just by seeing me there."

"Good." Lovino's face broke into a smile, reminding Antonio why he was the most famous actor in the world. He patted Antonio's shoulder amiably. "You did me a big favor, so thank you. I'll make sure to return it soon."

Antonio really didn't mind either way, but Lovino was insistent, and the Spaniard had the feeling he'd be surprised soon enough.

They sat down together for lunch, which felt much more awkward without Feliciano to fill up the silences. After the first lengthy pause of five whole minutes, Lovino muttered to the air that if his AWOL brother didn't show up in ten seconds flat, he wouldn't be allowed out of doors next time.

But Feli didn't show up. So they talked quietly with their eyes instead.

* * *

Not long after that Lovino left, for some appointment or other (Antonio suspected Carlota's involvement), and the next few hours passed in relative peace and quiet. It was interesting in Lovino's house with nothing to do and no one to see; he almost felt like an esteemed guest, free to revel in the Vargas' wealth and splendor. But in the end, not really trusting himself, he stayed in the safety of his room to read. He took out once more the three notebooks labeled  _Impressions,_ and flipped through them in a moment of nostalgia.

Antonio still remembered the day he'd bought them, with his own money, at a corner-store without his mother's knowledge. The afternoon had been cold and he'd tucked the books into his coat to keep them safe from rain and snow, but he'd felt warm the whole way home. He remembered spreading them out on his desk, just looking at them, before writing his first English sentence:  _I am Antonio and I am 10 years old._ It had felt like a new beginning, a new step forward.

Now, though, he turned the pages and a sense of weariness overtook him. Over the years he had written many things in these thin books, often indiscriminately. Blocks of daily records and news, descriptions of places he'd been to, word-illustrations of faces and paintings and other artwork, and the ultimate test - his own fictitious musings. He had poured everything about who he was into these pages. But even in the end they hadn't helped him, hadn't helped the faded manuscript languishing at the bottom of his suitcase, which he couldn't bear to leave yet couldn't bear to see.

Near the very end of the third book was his final entry, of five years ago -  _Sending my brainchild into the world. Fingers crossed... -_ and after that several blank pages, five in all.

So he had been weak. It didn't matter anymore.

He reached his shy depiction of Bella again, only three lines, not even enough to make a haiku, and suddenly didn't feel embarrassed at all. He took out a marker pen from the desk drawer, uncapped it and drew three more thick lines across the page, covering all the words.

It was strangely freeing to block out certain thoughts as they faded. Self-censorship paid off.

* * *

Lovino did not delay at all in returning his favor. The next morning, after a good little workout in the indoor gym, he asked Antonio if he'd like to have dinner at Scarpetta. Antonio, naturally, was struck speechless by the suggestion.

"I...  _Scarpetta_?"

"Unless you'd prefer somewhere else," said Lovino, thoughtfully feeling the bit of stubble on his chin, and making a move for the bathroom. "But if you haven't tried authentic Italian food, that's the place to go."

"T- _today_?" Antonio stuttered, and the actor peered at him with an odd look.

"Why not? I'm free this evening. My treat. Unless you'd rather not go?"

Finally Antonio had no choice but to accept, and spent the morning and afternoon in a dreamlike state of disbelief.

In the evening Lovino returned from an appointment with the costume designer and they set off. Night had fallen more quickly than usual, the standard inky black of Los Angeles, only faintly driven off by the street and car lights, and Antonio felt the gloom settle upon him.

Under any other circumstances this could have been a date, the time of his life probably, as Lovino's presence elevated the occasion beyond belief. But he did not feel excited. He had selfishly and self-pityingly wanted to spend his Sunday alone, and now he was paying the price for it. Which he deserved.

"Are you feeling all right, Antonio?" Lovino asked, and Antonio utterly missed the concerned edge in his voice. "You're being awfully quiet."

"No, I'm fine," he said, not knowing how much of that was true, and fumbling for a quick excuse. "I - I've never been here before, so... the scenery is all really new to me."

"What do you think of it?"

"It's beautiful," Antonio answered, drawing upon previous, more cheerful impressions. "Elegant too. But in the dark it looks mysterious - the good kind of mysterious, as if life's happening behind a curtain that you just have to lift, and everything's warm and alive." Lovino remained silent at the wheel, and Antonio glanced over at him. "I rather like it, actually. It's very different from New York City."

"Oh? How is New York City then?"

"Cold, for one." They shared a smile at the obviousness of the statement. "But if you've lived there for a while, you'll know it's more than just temperature-cold. The city itself... everyone about his or her business, too busy to care about anything else... And sharp. I found myself being like that too, after a while. An impersonal kind of cold."

Lovino stayed quiet for a minute. Then he spoke: "It's sad, but it's true for most cities."

"Yes. That's why I wanted very much to live in a suburb. Or even the countryside."

"Let me guess: you went to college in the countryside."

"No." The old wistfulness had risen again, and he felt a sudden desire to get rid of it. Did it really matter who he told? "I went to school in Chicago and it was basically the same. Though looking back, I did judge it a bit unfairly. I was prejudiced against big cities by then."

"Is that one of the reasons you accepted my offer?"

The question and its unexpectedness hit home, and Antonio couldn't help staring at him. So Lovino had been wondering about him too. He pondered the possibility of the actor being drunk, but he didn't sound like it.

"I suppose you could say that," he said at last.

Another awkward silence fell, a much longer one this time. Antonio had just begun to think this an unfortunate necessity around Lovino when the actor said suddenly, "We're here."

They were both saved by the distracting sight of the restaurant. As Antonio had expected, it was elegant beyond belief: ivory pillars interspersed with windows, warmly lighted by elaborate ceiling fixtures. The Spaniard almost didn't know where to look as they entered the main dining room, but Lovino quickly found a table for two in a quiet corner near the window.

"Now we can observe without being observed too much," concluded Lovino with satisfaction, taking the seat furthest from prying eyes. Antonio sat across from him, discreetly marveling at the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses and the bustle of well-dressed waiters, and the occasional friendly grouping out on the terrace. Then the menus arrived and he was properly scared out of his wits.

"Order whatever you like," advised Lovino, only adding to Antonio's discomfort. "It's on me."

Antonio had the fleeting feeling that this was all a test and he was on the verge of failing; so he opted for the lowest-priced of everything, not wishing to impose upon Lovino. The waiter, with a similarly terrified expression, left in a great hurry and soon the two of them were all alone at the table. Together, but still alone.

"Bella won't be here, so don't worry," Lovino said after a moment, as if that was their primary concern. "I used to bring her here, but it's been a long while."

"Do you usually come here yourself?" asked Antonio, desperate to avoid the subject of Lovino's past lovers.

"Not regularly. If I did the paparazzi would be after me, all the time." Lovino laughed shortly. "It gets pretty damn tiring, I can tell you."

"What if some of them are here right now?"

"I doubt it."

Antonio briefly studied the beer Lovino was drinking. "Is that good?"

"This?" The actor raised his glass. "Of course it is.  _Birra amiata_  - the best beer they have here. You don't drink, do you?"

"No."

"Not even in college?"

"No."

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me," Lovino said, half-laughing. "That's not important." He took another sip out of the glass with a reflective look on his face. "I just realized I've been asking you all about yourself and you barely even know me. How about  _you_  ask me something?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you." Lovino's hazel eyes glinted with amusement. "Nothing I can't answer here, of course, because we only have so much privacy. Otherwise fire away. I'll answer."

That put the most important question out of the running. Antonio thought for a minute. "What's your favorite book and why?"

"Favorite book? I'll need a minute for that one." They were briefly interrupted as their food arrived. After a short while Lovino said, " _Sei personnagi in cerca d'autore._ Or  _Six Characters in Search of an Author,_ by Luigi Pirandello. The title is pretty self-explanatory - a director and his cast about to rehearse find six characters who need someone to finish their story. But it's more complicated than that. It's a play within a play, it's dramatic, it's illogical and distorts your sense of reality. But it just goes to show you how artificial - " He stopped. Tried to start again, and shook his head. "I couldn't explain without getting into too much detail. Have you read it before?"

"No, not yet."

"You'll have to read it." Lovino smiled, a strange knowing smile that Antonio couldn't fathom. "But now that I think about it, this isn't a play I'd say I  _love -_ because there's too much complexity about it and it's not all positive. But I did enjoy it. If that answers your question. Anything else?"

"If you were the main character in a story and you could do anything you wanted, what would you do?"

Lovino was liking this; he could tell by the interested yet thoughtful look on the actor's face. "Now  _that's_  a great question. I've been a main character plenty of times, but I never got to choose my own fate. If I were the most important man in a novel, or in any other story, I'd - well - " He let out a chuckle. "I'd fight off whatever obstacles or evil jerks that get in my way, but other than that... I'd like to live a nice, calm life with whatever family or loved ones I have. And not make them worry. Generally speaking, anyway. Is that a good enough answer for you? Yes? What else?"

Antonio took a deep breath.

"What do you value most in life?"

This time Lovino stopped short and stared at him. Then slowly and deliberately he swirled his glass, as if it might provide some answer to him, and took a short tense sip. "... Well, that's a tough one. I don't suppose my previous answers were clear enough?"

It was Antonio's turn to smile. This was familiar territory. "All the same I'd really like to hear it in your words."

Lovino didn't stop watching him. A minute seemed to pass like it was an age, before he looked straight at Antonio, smiled slowly and said, "I value moments like these."

A little thudding feeling rose in Antonio's chest. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly that. I value moments like these. Where I can talk about and listen to whatever I like, with whomever I like, and enjoy all of it."

Then Antonio didn't know what to say. But he understood. Lovino had never looked as bold and carefree as he had in these few minutes, as if a mask had been lifted to reveal something authentic and warm. Dare he think it? Yes, this could very well be the real Lovino. More alive and handsome than Antonio had ever seen him.

"Do you have any other questions for me?" asked Lovino, with a look on his face that bordered on fondness.

"No. That's all I have for now."

They had finished their dinner and Lovino paid the bill, leaving a generous tip out for the waiter. "All right, then," he said. "Let's go now. It's getting late." He stood up, and Antonio followed, intrigued still by the expression on his face. But to his surprise it faded right away as Lovino's eyes caught something in the distance. His face darkened alarmingly.

"Don't look," he murmured before Antonio could turn around. "Just follow me. Stay behind me."

Antonio realized he was meant to shield Lovino from view, and did so, all the way back to the car. When they got in Lovino didn't start the engine, but pulled out his phone and punched out an angry text. Then he shoved the phone back into his pocket and stared straight ahead.

"That was Feli back there," he said with calmly concealed anger. "And Roderich."

"Roderich - as in Roderich  _Edelstein_?" asked Antonio, not trusting his ears.

"The very one. My designer friend." Lovino remained alarmingly composed. "They must have spent the afternoon together; that's why Feli never came back. But of course he'd choose Scarpetta for a date. Why didn't I think of that earlier?"

"Is he coming back with us?"

"Yes. I texted him just now. They haven't even started yet, so he should be able to slip away. If not I have something to tell him."

Antonio didn't know what to say after that. But Lovino's phone buzzed almost immediately, and he pulled it out to stare at the screen. The Spaniard managed to catch sight of the words:  _ok be right out_.

Then Lovino's carbon copy hurried out toward them, pulled open the door and slipped into the back seat. He looked just as displeased as Lovino.

"Lovi - what did you do that for?"

" _I_  should be asking you that," said Lovino dangerously. "So you've been seeing Roderich? Why?"

"Why not?"

Right then Lovino exploded. "You know why not. You know what's going to happen if we get found out. And you still fucking ignored the rules! What kind of a mess are you trying to make?"

"I'm not trying to make a mess," muttered Feliciano, "you are."

" _You_  - " Lovino turned around and started the engine, taking visibly large breaths to calm his anger. "Did Roderich see me?" he asked shortly.

"No," Feliciano said sullenly. "I doubt he did. I didn't see you either."

"Well, whether he did or not, you and I are going to have a talk. A good, long serious talk. As soon as we get back. You hear me, Feli?"

"I hear you."

* * *

A good, long serious talk it was indeed. Even in his room he could hear the shouting from down below.

"You could have just  _told_ me where you were going, and I wouldn't be this angry! But no - you never answered my calls! Or my texts! Or any fucking thing! Now if we get found out we're  _dead_! How can you not understand that?"

"It's not life or death, Lovi! Don't you think  _I_  get tired being locked up all day?"

"Since when were you locked up? You go out whenever you like!"

"That's not true - I do ask you!"

"But you didn't this time!"

"This was different!"

"Sure it was! And since when did you start seeing  _Roderich_ , of all people? This is absolutely ridiculous, fucking  _ridiculous_  - "

"Lovi, just  _calm down_! Can't we just talk this out like reasonable men - "

"I  _am_ being reasonable! The problem is, he thinks it's  _me_!"

It was like that. At some point Antonio decided to tune them out, and went on his laptop again to check his email. No new communications from Gilbert or Francis. They must have been busy today. He remembered the hectic daily routines he'd endured back in New York and sighed; at least it was all far away now.

He logged out and, for no reason, went on the news. Halfway through scrolling down the headlines he stopped, a title jumping out at him.

 _VARGAS SPOTTED WITH ANOTHER MAN!_ it read. Updated just twenty minutes ago; he clicked on it.

And a familiar picture met his eyes: Lovino, without a doubt Lovino, sitting cheerfully at one end of the table with a glass of beer in hand. And opposite sat Antonio himself, his back to the camera. The entire article was a speculation on just who this could be, this tall brown-haired man whom Lovino had taken to dinner only two weeks after his breakup, who had the skill to make him smile and laugh, who could only be his newest romantic interest.

Slowly Antonio closed the browser, his heart sinking, and leaned back in his chair.

What a mess things were. What a mess, indeed.


	6. six words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino gets a little dose of reality.

"Hello? Lovino?"

"Hello, Roderich," said Lovino, voice tight as his grip on the phone. "We haven't talked in a while. What's up?"

"My goodness, Lovino, it's only been... a week? You don't have to talk to me like that. I know what's going on. But it doesn't mean I'm not still your friend – at least, I don't  _think_ it –"

"What do you mean, you know what's going on?"

Roderich sounded as calm as ever. "I read the news too, you know. It wasn't that hard to figure out – obviously that picture was you and the man with me  _wasn't_ you. That is, unless you're hiding something supernatural under that nice face of yours. Why didn't you tell me you had a twin?"

"I don't."

"Lovino. Don't be like this. I haven't told anyone else and I'm not going to."

"I'm serious. I don't."

"Is this the 'he's only my brother because he's two minutes younger' kind of thing? Or is he a look-alike you picked up somewhere?"

Lovino let out a breath and watched it swirl into the cool air, in thin transparent wisps, with the vain hope that an answer might appear before him, or at least a miracle to end Roderich's questions. But nothing happened. Finally he said, "So I do have a twin. A couple minutes younger. What of it?"

Roderich's voice evaporated in an indignant huff. "You could have told me sooner, for one."

"That was for me to decide."

"Well, you had it your way, all right. But let's not talk in circles anymore. What's more important here is how you're going to  _explain_ all this. They didn't catch your twin, but they got pretty close. Who was that man with you, anyway?"

"No one you need to know."

"The same one you told me about the first time?" He could practically hear Roderich's eyebrow raise.

"How do you remember all this?"

"It's a skill, Lovino, that you probably want to have. In case people like Bella come calling, to ask why you were out with someone else."

Lovino groaned and covered his face. "Please don't remind me."

A dry chuckle from Roderich's end. "I'm on your side, Lovino. It wouldn't do me any good to spill your secrets. So if you want me to keep quiet, I will."

"Speaking of secrets. What were you doing with my brother?"

"Nothing. He came to me first."

"Why?"

"First it was a suit. You remember last Thursday, when he came over and requested a grey one?" Lovino didn't. "At first I thought it was you, with another of your spontaneous orders. Then I measured his height and it was five feet ten inches. You're five feet eleven. So I thought to myself, 'Unless Lovino's been shrinking, this can't be him.' Besides, he either couldn't imitate your gruffness to save his life, or he simply wasn't trying. You've got a one-of-a-kind gruffness, I can tell you."

"... Thanks?"

"You're welcome. Anyway, I didn't say a thing about it, since I wanted to watch and see. But he wasn't interested in much aside from getting the best clothes he could out of me. I gather this wasn't unknown to you?"

"Did you go to the movies together?"

"No – as if I'd know him well enough for that! Besides, he seemed more interested in my assistant than me. I honestly don't know why, being as handsome as I am –"

"Your assistant, you say?" Lovino interrupted, trying to channel his glare through the phone. "Which assistant? What's his name?"

"Ludwig something, I believe. I have four helpers and he's the quietest of the bunch. Let me check... ah yes, Beilschmidt. Ludwig Beilschmidt. I'm not dismissing him, in case you were wondering. He's very helpful to me."

The name sounded oddly familiar, but Lovino couldn't place it. "When does he work for you?"

"Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays..." Roderich laughed. "You're not interested too, are you? He's just a regular guy. Just a regular –"

"Stop joking around. What's his schedule?"

"Oh, you stop it. I don't need any of your criminal investigations. He's not a criminal."

Under other circumstances Lovino would have argued, but he had already made up his mind. And he knew everything he needed to know. "All right then – I'll talk to you later, Roderich. Don't tell anyone what I just told you."

"As far as I know, we never had this conversation."

"Good."

"Later, Lovino."

* * *

It was seven-thirty a.m. when he left the study and went downstairs alone. Antonio was not there with him; he had fled after waking Lovino up, mumbling something about helping Alonso with the food (and looking rather adorable with his sleep-tousled hair and his hurry to get away). Feliciano, on the other hand, he had not seen since yesterday evening. They were both avoiding him now, and not without reason. But certain plans for the day excluded his brother's involvement.

 _All for the best_ , he thought, as he watched them from across the dining room table. Feliciano had chosen to sit with Antonio this time, and it looked as if they had formed some implicit alliance against Lovino. Which did not sit well with the actor, but some things one had to bear. There was plenty of time later on to deal with such domestic issues.

"Leaving again?" Feliciano asked the minute Lovino made a move to stand up, and the older Vargas cursed inwardly.

"Yes, just the usual," he said with the utmost nonchalance. "I'll be back by noon."

Feliciano made a faint sound that could have been assent and picked up another roll, his face blank and eyes trained on the tablecloth. Those were some beautifully embroidered flowers in the corner by his elbow. They remained like that for a while, Feliciano studying the delicate linen fibers and Lovino studying his brother's face, until Antonio, out of necessity, broke the silence.

"I helped make breakfast today!" he exclaimed from out of nowhere, ending the one-sided staring contest. "Did you guys like it?"

"It was great, thanks."

"Are you kidding?" Feliciano practically shouted, turning to Antonio. "It was awesome! You should cook for us again sometime. Do you know any Spanish recipes? I'd love to try –"

Antonio smiled at him, and then at Lovino – a slightly awkward smile, considering the fact that yesterday's news was still fresh in his mind. But it was a smile, and Lovino couldn't help noticing how, on the right side of Antonio's face, a tiny dimple had appeared near his mouth. Just the right side. Like a little blinking neon sign saying,  _Come closer! Look at me!_

He tore his eyes away and looked toward the stairs instead.

"Antonio, you're to help me deliver something today. Come with me and I'll drop you off."

"I'll get ready right now."

They went upstairs together. Lovino stopped at his own room, letting Antonio walk past, and snuck a glance at the Spaniard fumbling with the doorknob. He had large warm-looking hands, and though they were clumsy now their motions were gentle. Just like the rest of him. Lovino wanted to linger upon his face next, but at that moment Antonio opened the door and went inside.

He still wouldn't come out when Lovino was ready, so the actor went out to the garage and started the Lamborghini. While he waited he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His many years on screen had done a world of good; Lovino Vargas' was as placid a face as any on the best classical statues.

He didn't know how on Earth people could mistake him for Feliciano, or Feliciano for him. He was still the same old emotionless Lovino wherever he went.

But today it would have to be different. Lovino frowned at himself and lifted one side of his mouth, then the other. A smile, all right, but not a Feli-smile. He tried again, channeling into it every happy thing he could possibly think of – little kids and barking puppies and Feli laughing and even (just this once) Antonio smiling – and it looked slightly better. The frown had almost entirely vanished.

 _I can do this after all,_ he thought sardonically.

And that was when Antonio showed up. At first he stopped short and simply stared; then he made his way to the passenger door and got inside. But the look he gave Lovino was still a strange one. Finally he said:

"Lovino... are you all right?"

"What do you mean, am I all right?" Lovino shot back, startled, as the smile faded. "I'm perfectly fine!"

Antonio looked frightened. "You were angry with Feliciano earlier and now you're smiling. Is something bothering you?"

"No."

"... Okay, that's good then."

But Antonio still appeared shell-shocked – not that it wasn't adorable, too. Lovino promptly tore out of the driveway and sped down the street. It was a long time before the Spaniard by his side spoke again, and this time he seemed determined to forget everything that had happened prior.

"... Lovino, didn't you say I had to deliver something?"

"Yes," said Lovino, eyes on the road.

"But... you just passed the post office."

"... Well, I didn't mean to deliver a package. To deliver a message."

"Where?"

"Roderich's studio. Which is where I'm going."

Now Antonio sounded completely lost. "But I thought you were going..."

"That's my alibi for the morning," said Lovino quickly, to stop the Spaniard's imagination from wandering. "Don't breathe a word to Feli, you hear?"

"I won't. But what message am I delivering?"

"All right, all right – you've got me." Lovino sighed. "You're not delivering a message. I am. You're just there to listen."

"So I'm a witness."

"Exactly."

Antonio settled back in his seat. "Then I'm ready."

"That you should be," remarked Lovino, half to himself, allowing a short-lived smirk to slide onto his face.

* * *

"Lovino! How  _nice_  to see you again! And so soon, too!" exclaimed Roderich in greeting. Anyone could tell he didn't appreciate this particular visit. Some things he chose not to hide.

So Lovino wouldn't either.

"Nice to see  _you_ , too. I'd have made an appointment first, but I just so happened to pass by. And I know you miss me already."

Roderich beckoned them to the couch across from him, and Lovino sat down with his usual dissatisfaction. The studio they were in had to be the plainest in the world – to be sure the windows greatly outnumbered any walls or pictures Roderich might have had, but the designer had made barely any attempt to decorate the place, besides a few light fixtures and choice wallpaper. He only got away with it because he was that famous, and fame allowed for hollow excuses like  _there is harmony in simplicity._ Which barely meant anything once you thought about it.

"So what brings you here today?" Roderich had sat up ramrod straight upon seeing Antonio. "And who is  _this_?"

"My assistant, Antonio. Anyway, I haven't nearly enough Italian suits. Most of the ones I have are American and British. So if you wouldn't mind assembling me a new one."

"No problem," said Roderich, evidently annoyed. "I'll just take your measurements – can't find the old ones for some reason..."

"Oh, I'll bet it's because you have so many customers to serve. You must be tired of taking people's measurements. You really don't have to. Let one of your assistants do it – hey, you over there! With the boxes. Help me out, won't you?"

His gut instinct turned out to be correct; the guy's name tag said very clearly  _Ludwig B._ And when Lovino flashed him a decidedly Feliciano smile, he reddened the slightest bit. So he  _had_ taken a liking to Feli, how interesting. But what a compliment to Lovino too!

Roderich was stewing regally in his seat.

"Those boxes are scheduled for delivery and he's the only one who can do it," he complained. "He doesn't do measurements anyway. I'll call over someone else."

"No, it's fine. Let Antonio help you out."

Ludwig, who had been making his way over, heard the name and looked toward Antonio. They spotted each other at the same moment. And something amazing happened.

"Ludwig?"

" _Antonio_?"

"How on earth did you get here?"

"What's going on?" demanded Roderich and both of them fell silent, Ludwig a bit more shyly. But Antonio was grinning from ear to ear – the first time he had ever done so in Lovino's presence.

"You  _know_  him, Antonio?"

"He's Ludwig Beilschmidt! My friend Gilbert's brother."

That was it, the missing piece of the puzzle: Gilbert Beilschmidt and  _Ludwig_ Beilschmidt, dear Lord. As if one wasn't already enough. Ludwig came forward and laughed when Antonio thumped him on the back.

"What a coincidence – I never thought I'd see you here!" Antonio said happily. "I missed you, man."

"How have you been?"

"Great. And you? How's the gap year going?"

"Awesome. As Gil would say."

They both laughed. Then Ludwig broke free and hurried to Lovino.

"I'm sorry for the delay, sir," he said politely. He couldn't be any older than Antonio, but it was offset by how tall he was. People were getting taller every year. "If you could please stand here, I'll start."

Lovino watched him as he worked, despite the fact that it only embarrassed the man further. He had to have been hired last week; Lovino did not recall seeing him on previous visits. But there was nothing too remarkable about him. With his standard blond hair and blue eyes Ludwig looked like many other Americans – or Germans, as his name suggested. The only thing that stood out to Lovino was his quietness – of course that would appeal to someone as patient and playful as Feli. And maybe his tendency to blush, which, if Feliciano saw him the way Lovino saw Antonio, could very likely be a catalyzing factor in their –

No, that was  _not_ the way Lovino saw Antonio.

"All right, here they are," said Ludwig, writing quickly but neatly on a paper-laden clipboard and showing the page to Lovino. Five feet eleven inches; Lovino had not shrunk. "I'll give these to Roderich and he should have your suit ready, in a month at the quickest. The others you ordered are already on their way."

"Thanks," said Lovino, and winked at him, making him stutter. "By the way," he added, lowering his voice, "are you free anytime this week? I'd really like to talk, especially since you didn't have time before –"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"But that's what you said the last time," Lovino went on, moving a little closer. Now to anyone scrutinizing them (which from the looks of things they were) he was simply whispering into the other man's ear. And making him blush. "Remember our movie date? I so wanted to –"

"I'm sorry, sir, but – I need to give these to Roderich right now."

And Ludwig quickly escaped while Roderich looked on, clearly fed up by now.

"Is that all you need today, Lovino?" he asked, displeased.

"Yes, that's plenty. Thanks for everything." Lovino had nothing more to say, however, as he had just noticed Antonio, from the pile of boxes across the room, watching him. He had probably seen Lovino teasing Ludwig. And maybe that wasn't so much jealousy on his face as bewilderment, but it was enough for Lovino. Two birds with one stone.

"That's who Feli's been seeing, you know," he explained on the way back home, to alleviate any lingering doubts. "I just had to make sure."

"Really?" was Antonio's only question.

"Yep. Roderich told me as much over the phone. I really don't know what Feli sees in him..."  _Aside from the fact that he blushes a little like you, which I refuse to comment on._

"Oh," said Antonio, looking straight ahead, "Ludwig's a decent guy. He just took a year off of college to get a job. But he's a hardworking person and very loyal. So if Feliciano likes him, and he likes Feliciano back, I'm sure they'll be happy," he finished with conviction. And Lovino had no more to add on the subject.

* * *

They made it back before noon, and thankfully Feliciano asked no questions. He came out from the indoor gym, greeted them, and went straight to the study afterward. When Lovino finally peeked in on him he was reading. Feliciano spoke upon seeing him.

"So how did it go?"

"Did what go?"

"You know. Carlota. Didn't you break it off with her yet?"

Lovino felt suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn't once thought of Carlota since yesterday. "I might," he said hesitantly. "Just not yet."

"The longer you drag this out, the worse it'll get." Feliciano turned a page in his book.  _Great Expectations;_ some things never grew old. Lovino wanted to smile. Then his brother said, "You're going to the rehearsal today, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Well, good luck. Alfred sent you an email, you know."

"What email?"

Feliciano showed him. "Just a reminder for everyone to go to Austria next week for the actual filming. This week is to get the new lines in, since there were changes with the poem and all."

"Oh." Lovino didn't know what to think, though he had been expecting it and had reserved his flight months prior. "Well... we'll need to do something about that."

"We can talk later." Feliciano still didn't look up. "I'd like to read awhile now, if you don't mind."

Lovino stared at him. "What's gotten into you, Feli?"

"Nothing."

"You've been like this all day. I just didn't say anything this morning. Why are you acting like this?"

"I only want to read."

"Fine." Lovino went to the door, wanting to slam it, but restrained himself. He was feeling unreasonable. "We'll talk later then, Feli. Don't miss me too much."

* * *

Loneliness hit him hard on the way to Alfred's. The car was quiet, the passenger seat empty; he found himself missing Antonio's soft words and Feliciano's chatter, even though his brother had never accompanied him on any trips. Feli always made a point of being on the best terms with people, no matter what. How did he do it? And why couldn't Lovino do the same without making a mess?

He knew very well that there were things about him the public excused because he was famous. Like Roderich and his imperfect studio. Like Bella and her past engagements. Like Carlota and her multiple affairs. Lovino they hardly ever criticized, besides reporting scandals in tones approaching admiration.

So he had gotten lazy. And now he couldn't do anything about himself even if he wanted to.

What did he really want anyway?

He wanted quite badly to have a drink. But that was another of those excusable things. And yet he wanted a drink. Something to wash away all his dreary daily realizations, his stupid embarrassments, his flaws, his flawed memories. If he couldn't have that, at least he could have people. Bodies to cradle, gentle curves to touch, lips to mold into any shape he liked. People who loved him for the enjoyment of an hour or two, the diversion from reality they found in each other.

He gripped the wheel tighter, focused harder on the road. Ahead was a red light, red for stop, and yet the red of passion. Forever clashing.

There had to be some way to resist. But he didn't know any.

The red light changed to green.

Green for go; green for emerald crystal clarity; green the color of someone's eyes.

 _oh baby with your pretty face_  
_drop a tear in my wineglass_  
_look at those big eyes on your face_  
_see what you mean to me_

 _See what you mean to me._ His heart beat strongly as he drove, on and on, toward the red and green lights of human existence. Coming back to earth just in time for the show.

* * *

The mask was on perfectly when he arrived. Even Bella, he was sure, couldn't tell the difference. But that still didn't stop her from interrogating him.

"Where's Antonio?" she asked, not the dreaded question he'd been expecting, but fairly close and equally irritating.

"He's on a different errand today," said Lovino good-humoredly.

"Is he quite all right? I read the news, you know. The poor thing – he must be traumatized by all the attention he's getting."

So she was treating him like an object again. Just as she treated anyone not at her level. But she had no right. She didn't know Antonio.

"Don't tell me he made the news again," he said carelessly. "I saw quite enough of him in the past."

There was just enough casualness in the last bit for Bella to pick it up. She did. "Well, you'll have to check this one out. It's not what you'd expect."

"He's not a troublesome guy. I doubt it's anything messy."

"You're getting rather fond of him, aren't you?"

"He's my assistant – is that really an appropriate question to ask? Though you seem interested yourself. Should I arrange a meeting?"

Bella flushed. "That's not what I meant. What kind of an assistant is he, anyway? An escort? Or –"

"No. Wrong place to look. If you'd like one, I'm afraid I can't help you there."

He hadn't meant to say anything hurtful – or so he told himself – but it was too late in any case. Bella fell silent and remained silent until they were all called back into position. Chess pieces on a board; he was the king and she the queen, and all the others merely pawns. Fated by scriptwriters to play the game, either of treachery and deception or of loyalty and honor. Sometimes both, just for the heck of it. And no one knowing their true colors, which side of the board they were really on.

He knew only one thing for sure: that he and Bella stood at opposite ends.

One check for his side.

Lovino never wanted to see her again.

* * *

When he finally reached home, without seeing either Antonio or Feliciano, he wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and sleep till midday. But the stars – even the stars – were conspiring against him. After five minutes of tossing and turning he remembered something and dragged himself out of his room, down the hall to Feliciano's, which still had a light underneath the door.

He knocked. "Come in," Feli's voice echoed faintly.

Lovino went in. Feliciano looked no different than he himself had a few minutes prior: sprawled supine on the bed, all his blankets bunched underneath him, staring determinedly at the ceiling. He was wearing an unfamiliar, bright blue pajama ensemble that Lovino had not bought him, with Longfellow curled up at his feet, and did not move even when Lovino came closer.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" he asked, sounding like the mother Lovino never knew.

"Couldn't." Lovino sat down at the foot of the bed and watched Longfellow skitter away, a blur of white and orange fur. "Are you mad at me? Don't be mad at me."

"I know what you've been doing," said Feliciano to the ceiling. "You aren't telling me, but I know it. There's a lot you haven't been telling me, Lovi."

"What did I do?"

"Don't act like that, Lovi, this isn't the stage.  _I_ know that  _you_  know who I've been seeing."

"Because Roderich told me."

"Because you asked him first. I can't do anything without your permission, can I?"

"I don't want shit to happen."

"I'm not a baby, Lovi." Feli still wouldn't look at him, but his hands had clenched into fists in the blankets. "Why can't you ever remember that? If you can take care of yourself, I can too."

It hurt. Lovino couldn't voice all the years past, all the years of responsible brotherhood he had never spent and probably never could now. "That's not what I meant, when I said all those things."

"But that's what it sounds like. I know you care about me. I know it's been a long time... but we're not kids anymore, Lovi. I can make my own decisions. Especially with things like this."

"... He's only an assistant, Feli."

"So? You like Antonio too."

Lovino looked away.

"I do not."

Feliciano sat up straight. "Yes you do. You're not the only one who notices things."

"So – so did he really go to the movies with you? Ludwig?"

Feli shook his head and glanced at the floor. "No. It was too awkward. And like you said, he thought I was you. I didn't know how to break it to him."

"Just drop it, then."

"That's easy for you to say!" Feliciano shot back, looking truly angry for the very first time. "You can go around with whoever you like and ditch them whenever you like. But do you ever care what they think, or is it just  _you_? It's always just you, isn't it?"

Lovino said nothing.

"I really do worry about Antonio," Feli went on quietly. "If he gets any closer to you he'll probably regret it."

"He's not getting any closer," said Lovino tightly.

"Some things you can't even see, Lovi. And you're still trying to tell me what to do."

"Feli, we're getting nowhere with this."

"Then stop minding my business and take care of yours!"

"You know why I can't..."

Feliciano turned despairingly to him. "Why did we even start this in the first place? Why did I ever agree? I should have known this would be a mess – I should have known."

"But it was for your own safety –"

"But I'm not your employee, Lovi! Sure, I did all your smiley scenes and everything – because I wanted to make things easier on you! I didn't want you to have too much pressure! But it's over now and you don't need my help anymore. So how hard would it be to just go out and announce your long-lost brother? How hard would it be to give me my independence for a change?" His voice lowered. "Or should I go back to Italy for that?"

His words raked at Lovino's chest.

"I... I have to go to Austria next week."

Feliciano let out a long breath. "And?"

"And I have to keep it a secret. No one's supposed to know we're filming." Lovino looked at his hands. "Couldn't we...?"

"Fine," said Feliciano abruptly. "But how much longer?"

"About three or four months for the filming. According to Alfred we should be done in three."

"Fine," said Feliciano again. "Just a little more. So three months?"

"Yes."

"Not one minute longer."

"No."

"All right then. I'll do it."

A long silence followed in the wake of his statement. Lovino watched him for a minute, then slowly scooted closer and put his hand on Feliciano's cheek, turning his face a little. Feliciano didn't resist, but didn't meet Lovino's eyes.

"Feli... Am I a bad brother? Do you dislike me a lot?" His twin's mouth remained firmly shut, his eyes downcast. "Tell me, Feli, please. I just want to know."

"You're..." Feliciano took a breath. "You're my weird, overprotective, caring brother. And I'm your weird, careless, annoying brother. But I love you anyway. Because I know you always mean well. So no... if you were a bad brother I'd be a bad one too."

Lovino stroked his hair gently. "I'm sorry."

"No," said Feliciano firmly. "You found me when Nonno died and gave me a place to stay. You took care of me. You're still taking care of me and that's the most anyone could do in your place. We'll work this out together, won't we?"

"Yes. We will."

"Good." Feliciano smiled. Then suddenly he lunged forward and hugged Lovino tight.

"H-hey! What are you –"

"Something I haven't done in a long time," Feliciano mumbled into his shoulder. "Just thought I'd do it again."

* * *

Lovino gave up all pretense of sleep at 1 a.m. He lay awake for a while, listening to the sound of crickets chirping somewhere outside the window, then jumped up and made his way through the balcony door into the still night. The cold hit him like a wall of ice, but it was welcome; Lovino needed some clarity to make sense of his thoughts.

For the past few hours he had been wondering about Austria, Feliciano, Antonio and Bella all at once. Feliciano was to stay, but that added another level of guilt to Lovino's already heavy load. And Lovino did not want to go alone to Austria and spend several months there with Bella. There had to be some way to bring Antonio along, no matter how many side questions that brought up. It wouldn't be too much to ask.

He looked up at the sky with its blanket of stars and the moon glittering like a silver brooch in the distance. Somewhere across the ocean these same lights would be shining. Shining over Austria where a small part of his future lay. There was a certain security in that realization. That he would never be alone with the heavens always watching over him.

Lovino sighed quietly and that was when he heard the soft voice somewhere off to his right.

"Hello? ... Gil, is that you?"

Antonio's voice. Lovino whipped around and saw him, a dim outline in the balcony next to his own. The phone was glowing a little, and by its light Lovino perceived the worry on Antonio's face.

"... Are you drunk? Gil, this isn't funny, you can't have stayed up all night like this! You have work tomorrow, how are you going to make it? Tell me where Francis –" The Spaniard was cut off, and listened for another minute. "You can call me tomorrow. Come on, just go to sleep... I'm not going anywhere. I promise –  _Gilbert_! Just please listen to me!"

Then Antonio seemed to lose his balance for a minute, nearly dropping his phone in the process. He clutched the balcony railing for support; it was a while before he spoke again.

"... Gil, you're – you're drunk. You need to stop." Even his voice sounded somewhat unsteady. "Look, I – I'll call Francis and wake him up. He'll take care of you. Okay? Get a good night's rest. I'll call you back tomorrow."

Antonio hung up and dialed another number. Then waited.

"Hello? Francis, is that you? Are you with Gilbert? Oh,  _gracias a Dios_ – I thought he was by himself and I didn't know what – Sorry for waking you up. He just called me and I was worried. Go back to sleep now, okay? Make sure he sleeps too. All right. Good night, Franny."

This time he hung up for good, and stared at the phone in a moment of disbelief. Lovino decided he'd been eavesdropping for long enough.

"Antonio!" he called, and the Spaniard nearly fell off the balcony in fright.

"L-Lovino! I-I didn't know you were there –"

"Is something the matter? You sounded worried just now."

"No, nothing..." His assistant laughed, not too convincingly. "A friend just called me. Drunk-dialed me, in fact. But not much else."

"Is he all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he is." Antonio ran a hand through his hair, in a way Lovino would have liked to see in broad daylight. "But how about you? Were you unable to sleep?"

"It happens sometimes," said Lovino with a shrug, wondering whether he could touch Antonio if they both reached across their respective balconies. "I just had a lot on my mind, that's all."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Really, it's not much."

Antonio fell silent for a minute. "Feliciano told me you have to go to Austria next week," he said at last. Was Lovino just imagining, or was that a tone of wistfulness in his voice? It couldn't be.

"He's right, I do. But he's staying behind to look after the house for me." Lovino shook his head. "I didn't want to make him go in my place."

"Does he take your place often?"

"Not really. He used to." It was the air, he thought, it was the cool clear air he was breathing that made the most improbable truths slip out of him like this. "Because I'm a bad actor in some respects."

"But you aren't," Antonio protested. "You're amazing in your movies."

"He did the parts I couldn't do."

"I'm sure you did your best."

Lovino shrugged. "Depends on your definition of 'best.' I mean, if you don't really  _feel_  you did your best, if you never really gave one hundred percent, you probably don't deserve whatever it is people say you deserve."

"Things like that happen, it's true, but it's in your hands, isn't it? That's the good part about it. It doesn't have to go on that way forever." Antonio smiled. "Maybe you just have to look at yourself the way other people do... and then you'll understand. And you'll know what to do."

Lovino didn't say anything. He still couldn't see much of Antonio's face, but all that mattered were his eyes. They shone like stars and he couldn't look away. But then again, Antonio wasn't looking away either.

"Will you go to Austria with me?" asked Lovino, and the question seemed to take on a sudden shade of meaning in the intimate quiet darkness.

Antonio blinked slowly, surprise in his eyes, before the smile returned with full force.

"Of course I'll go," he said, with that beautiful Antonio-optimism that Lovino had begun to associate with him, and all at once everything, even the most wonderfully impossible things, seemed in that moment to be possible.


	7. fall seven times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get messy whenever Gilbert's involved. And he is _very_ involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from a Japanese proverb, "Fall seven times and stand up eight." I thought it was meaningful even if it's not literally reflected anywhere in the story.

Antonio had trouble waking up the next morning.

At some point during his slumber a faint, incessant ringing had overtaken his senses, a sound very much like the clanging of alarm bells but more distant. It was a sound he could not ignore no matter how hard he tried. Deep inside he felt it, felt the alarm spreading through him like a wildfire, and what unnerved him the most was that he had no idea what he should have been worried about. All he could remember was Lovino asking him something in the middle of the night, something soft and unexpected, something that had tugged at Antonio's heartstrings. Completely at odds with that glossy, reflective mask actors like Lovino so often wore.

 _Will you go to Austria with me?_ A simple question. But something had been left unsaid, he was sure of it.

And Antonio had seen it in those bright hazel eyes of his.

_Will you go with me? Just this once? Just to keep me company?_

_I'm lonely, you know. Fame has its fair share of burdens – there's no such thing as pure friendship anymore._

_And I miss it._

_You understand, don't you? Because you're lonely, too. I can see it in your eyes._

**_We're two of a kind, you and I._ **

His eyes flew open then. The alarm clock was still blaring by his ear and he felt around in the dark for it, turning it off, his head spinning from the force of the words. He fumbled for the lamp next to him and switched it on. Dim light pooled around the dresser as he reached under the bed for his thin battered suitcase, all but empty now.

There it was still, tucked into a space at the very bottom. Just a lopsided stack of lined paper, the sheets a little ratty around the edges and starting to yellow. Five years' worth of work. He turned the pages. Five, ten, twenty-five, forty, fifty, sixty-seven... He skimmed down the page until he saw the words.

_"You understand, don't you, why you're here? Why we're both here?" said Leonardo, pocketing his gun with a short smile. In the night his eyes burned like embers, gleaming with the barely concealed awareness of power. Power he had willingly chosen not to use._

_The stars shone down upon them._

_"Why are we here?" demanded Andres._

_"Why? Because Fate has decreed it. There are invisible strings holding the universe together and each of us is tied to one. It's all a huge puppet show. The strings move, we move and we bump into each other and our threads get tangled together. Life."_

_"That would never happen with us."_

_"It already has. The fact that we're here proves it. You understand, don't you?"_

_"No. No, I don't."_

_"I think you do – no, I_ know _you do. Because you're lonely, too. I can see it in your eyes."_

_Andres said nothing._

_"We're two of a kind, you and I."_

The paper crinkled a little in Antonio's fingers and he hurriedly turned the page, letting out a long breath. Those words – how had they resurfaced after so long, after he'd tried so hard to forget them? The strength of the memory almost overwhelmed him. His hand shook and instead of flipping to the beginning to put the manuscript away, he only succeeded in removing the paper clip at the top, scattering the pages all over the floor and under the bed.

"Shit," he whispered and went down on all fours to gather it up, unaware of the hall lights turning on outside and the footsteps approaching his door until it was too late.

"Hey, Anto – Antonio? What are you doing? What happened?"

And there Lovino stood in the doorway, gazing down at him. Antonio had begun to realize he was always,  _always_  present at the most embarrassing times.

"I – nothing, I just dropped some papers..." The Spaniard cringed as he caught sight of the time on the alarm clock. "I'm sorry, Lovino, I forgot to wake you up on time and I should be – ah, you don't need to help me, really –"

But Lovino had already crouched down next to him and picked up one of the pages, his eyes darting across the lines. A mix of concentration and curiosity entered his face as his brows furrowed.

"Did you write this, Antonio?"

The question had been inevitable from the moment Lovino picked up the paper. Still Antonio nearly flinched, missing the look Lovino shot him. What would he think now?

"Yes... yes, I did. It's nothing."

Lovino squinted at the page again in the dimness of the room. "This is... pretty good, from what I can see so far. I didn't know you wrote in your spare time."

"Well, I used to. Now, though... I mostly write poems."

He tried for a smile and was surprised to find Lovino staring at him, a strange interested expression on his face. In the shaded light of the lamp and the faint glow from the window, Lovino made an exquisite picture – every feature seemingly carved from the finest fluid marble, his eyes glowing nearly golden and his mouth on the verge of quirking – as if he'd found something he didn't have the words to describe.

Suddenly Antonio couldn't look at him anymore and averted his eyes.

"That was a joke, you know," he said quickly, attempting a laugh and failing. "I'm hardly good enough to be a poet, let alone a writer." In a futile attempt to distract himself he fiddled with the pages he had collected; anything was better than meeting Lovino's eyes now. "And well, I – I only tried with that one poem for you." Oh, but that was the wrong thing to say!

A minute passed before Lovino let out a soft chuckle. "... I'd say you did very well."

He was still watching Antonio and the Spaniard knew it. Despite himself he felt an involuntary flush creep up his cheeks, which did not help his embarrassment in the least. No, he couldn't stay like this any longer, he had to move and  _fast_  –

"L-Lovino! I'm sorry I kept you here so long. And I should be downstairs helping with breakfast right now." He pulled the last page out of Lovino's hands and hurriedly threw everything back into the suitcase, kicking it under the bed. "That was just –"

"Could I read it?"

"I – what?" Antonio said intelligently, words failing him. Lovino seemed to be hovering between a frown and a laugh.

"Could I read your story sometime? It sounds like an interesting one. Have you published it yet?"

And there was the question Antonio had been dreading. Mustering a smile to hide the plummeting feeling in his stomach, he shook his head.

"I... I don't plan on publishing it. But you can read it later if you like."

Lovino must have noticed the look on his face because he stopped.

"Ah, well... that's really too bad."

"It's fine. I've always been a closet writer, anyway."

To escape more questioning, Antonio mentioned breakfast and excused himself to go downstairs to the kitchen. But he could still feel Lovino's eyes following him all the way to the door.

* * *

Not even his phone would leave him alone; some time after breakfast it rang lowly in his pocket, causing him to spill a little water over the dining room table he'd been cleaning. As soon as he saw the number his heart sped up unpleasantly. It was Gilbert's.

"Hello?"

"Oh, you're up," said Gilbert, sounding as though he hadn't slept a wink. "What're you doing?"

"Cleaning." Antonio shot a quick glance around to make sure the coast was clear. Then he remembered that Lovino had left an hour earlier and Feliciano was probably still in his room. "How about you? It's probably 11 a.m. over there. Won't Mathias see you on the phone or something?"

"Don't worry about it. I can do whatever I like."

Something in his voice, and the fact that he'd been up drinking till four in the morning, made Antonio instantly suspicious. "Are you at work right now, Gil?"

"... No."

" _Gil_!"

"You know how much I love it when you talk to me like that," groaned Gilbert, sounding a little bit like his normal self again. "Francis helped me call in sick, which was mostly true. I'll just go back in a few days. No big deal."

"A few  _days_?"

"Now Toni, if you'll just stop overreacting –"

"You can't just skip out on things like that! How long could you even keep it up?"

"As long as it takes for me to see you."

Antonio suddenly found it difficult to breathe. "What do you mean?"

"That I'm here right now. And I want you to come over."

"You didn't – Gil, you didn't  _fly over here this very morning_?"

"Yes, I did. Hangover and all." Gilbert laughed humorlessly. "I had this flight booked a week ago. It wasn't a problem. Stop worrying, Toni, you always do. Even when it's unnecessary."

"You have work to do, Gil!"

"And just how much more important can work be than – never mind." His friend took a deep breath. "Look, I just wanted to know if you're free today. Is that too much to ask?"

"No. I only wish you'd told me in advance! Instead of drunk-dialing me in the middle of the night and then pulling off stuff like this!"

Gilbert stopped. "I... what? Drunk-dialed you?"

"And now you don't remember." Antonio didn't know why he was feeling annoyed. He sighed instead. "That's not important. I'll come over. But I need to let them know first."

"Them?"

"I mean – Lovino and the other assistants and servants. I help out with chores too, you know."

"Fine. I'll give you the address for my hotel." Gilbert's voice had chilled a little. "Stop by when you can."

* * *

As expected, Feliciano gave his approval right away and Antonio soon found himself in a cab on the way to Gilbert's hotel. It turned out to be the same one Antonio had stayed in during his first days in Los Angeles.

Gilbert answered the door on the first knock. He had dark circles under his eyes, making him look even paler than usual, and a hint of stubble on his chin which he must have forgotten to shave. Instead of the long sweaters everyone had started wearing even in Los Angeles, he only sported a thin rumpled T-shirt and hastily thrown-on jacket. In a word, he looked terrible. He slapped Antonio on the back, not as strongly as usual, and ushered him into the living room.

"Have a seat. Did you have breakfast yet?"

"Yeah. You?"

"No. Caught up on sleep this morning, though." Gilbert noticed the blankets and pillow next to Antonio on the couch and quickly cleared them away. "It's hard to sleep on their beds sometimes. They're so soft I feel like I might drown any second. Death from soft mattress asphyxiation."

Antonio laughed. This was the Gilbert he was used to, and for a moment it was easy to forget about the fateful words that had been said yesterday night. "You're so pessimistic, Gil. You couldn't have given it a try?"

"Impossible. There are many things I'll risk, but my life isn't one of them."

"Well..." Antonio remembered again, and as much as he didn't want to change the subject he felt that he had to. "Why did you do all this anyway?"

Gilbert halted at the question, sat down and turned to him, crimson eyes unfathomable. The air itself seemed to tense along with him. "Why do you think I did, Antonio?"

"You said you wanted to see me. But you don't have to physically be here to –"

"Yes I do. Because it's not the same otherwise."

"And neglect your own life and your own responsibilities? Gil, I know you miss me a lot and that's understandable – I miss you and Francis too, after all!" By this time Antonio couldn't help the frown that had entered his voice. "We've been apart before, all three of us, and it was never like this! Don't you think there's a point where – where you have to let go? So you can get on with your life and not make a mess out of things?"

"What if I don't want to let go?"

Antonio's insides froze. "What?"

"Maybe I don't want to let go," said Gilbert calmly. "Because it's you."

His hand was on Antonio's; the Spaniard had no idea when it had gotten there. His heart suddenly began to pound as Gilbert laced their fingers together. "Gil, what are you –"

"I know why I drunk-dialed you yesterday. I don't remember exactly what I said but I'm pretty sure. I know I was tired of holding back so long and never saying a word, and I realized that the day you told me you were leaving. But I tried, I fucking tried. Hell, Antonio, you never even  _knew_ how I felt all those years, did you?"

"You never –"

"I know that," Gilbert said despairingly. "I should have let you know early on but I didn't because I was scared shitless! You've never seen yourself, Antonio, how kind you were, how warm and happy and optimistic even when things were tough, especially for us. You'd be hurting and you'd still make sure I was okay first. And I don't know how you managed to stand through all you've been through, but I know it's done something to you now and I can't bear seeing you this way, Antonio!"

"I'm okay," Antonio whispered, looking down at their joined hands.

"You keep saying that. You keep saying that and you don't know that it hurts me too. Don't you think I've wished I didn't have to feel this way? So it wouldn't be so much harder on either of us? But I can't. I don't want to just be your friend. It's not enough, Antonio. Not when it comes to you."

"Gil –"

"I told you last night and I'll say it again. I love you, Antonio."

"Gilbert –"

They were kissing before he could stop himself. Gilbert's lips were warm, tasting vaguely of beer and something else Antonio couldn't quite place, but it didn't matter. He'd forgotten what it was like to be kissed and now he welcomed the feeling. He ran a hand through Gilbert's hair, inducing a faint noise, and soon found himself lying on the couch with messy, indistinct kisses being trailed down his neck.

"God, Antonio," whispered Gilbert, breath hot against his skin, "I've wanted to do this for so long. I love you so much."

Antonio didn't know what to say, but reached up to touch his face instead. Gilbert paused for a moment to look at him.

"Do you... love me too, Antonio?"

A hush fell. Antonio couldn't speak.

"... Antonio?"

"I... I really don't know."

That stopped Gilbert for a minute; but he soon recovered himself. "It's all right. I don't mind if you want a little time to figure it out. I'll wait however long you like. I'll do anything for you. Just please, Antonio... please give me a chance."

"I..." Antonio found it hard to say the words. "I have to leave for Austria next week."

" _What_?"

"Lovino asked me. I said yes. I have to go with him."

"Why didn't you tell me before? How long is it for?"

"Three or four months. I didn't know how to bring it up." Antonio sat up and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry."

"No. You didn't know." Gilbert looked away, toward the wall, then at the floor, then back at Antonio. "He has more than one assistant, doesn't he? Just tell him you have urgent business at home and can't go with him. He'll understand. It's not the end of the world if one assistant can't make it."

"I promised, Gil. I can't do that."

"So you'd leave," said Gilbert slowly, eyes hardening a little. "After what I just told you... Do you even care what I feel? Do you?"

"I do. But it's my job, Gilbert."

"Who says you have to keep working for him? He's the one obliged to you for getting you fired, so he shouldn't say anything if you leave. None of it was your fault. You used to stand up for yourself, Antonio. What happened to you?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry."

"Is it because of Lovino? Are you doing it for him?" Gilbert's voice rose abruptly. "Are you seriously fucking doing this because you want to be with an actor?  _Are you_?"

"No, I –"

"You love him, don't you? You haven't even been there for a month and you're already in love."

"No, I'm  _not_!"

"That's what you say. That's what they all say." The hurt in Gilbert's voice was overwhelming. "But he's got charm, oh, I know he has. I'm nothing compared to him. But since when have actors been truthful, Antonio? Tell me that!"

"For the last time, Gilbert,  _I'm_   _not_   _in love with him_!" shouted Antonio, jumping up. "I'm not in love with anyone and I probably won't be anytime soon!"

Gilbert stilled. "Not even me?"

"I don't know," muttered the Spaniard. "I don't want to think about this. I don't want to think about anything right now. It's too much. I need more time."

"Fine."

Surprisingly Gilbert didn't stop him from walking away. At the doorway Antonio turned back.

"I'm sorry again, I really am," he said quietly. "I don't want to hurt you or anyone else. But I just can't deal with all of this yet."

He stepped out and softly eased the door shut. Gilbert was silent.

The door clicked and Antonio was free to go.

* * *

Fifteen minutes afterward, he found himself on the couch in Lovino's spacious living room, trying to compose himself before he went back upstairs to find Feliciano. He had only just worked up the nerve to get up when he heard the front door slam shut and loud footsteps echoing in the foyer.

It was Lovino who stormed through the doorway, flinging away his keys and jacket, which narrowly missed Antonio's face. He went to the kitchen and took a tomato and a beer from the fridge, slamming more doors as he went. Then he stalked back through the living room to the stairs, took one bite of the tomato and threw it in the nearest trash can.

"Lovi, what's wrong?" shouted Feliciano, appearing at the top of the stairs.

"Nothing, dammit." Lovino began stomping up the stairs. "Out of my way,  _now._ "

"Not until you give me an answer! What did you do? What did  _she_ do? Tell me, Lovi!"

"That little bitch," said Lovino very calmly, "got all worked up about me leaving to Austria. Whined and cried and all that bullshit. That was on the phone. Then I went to see her today and guess what she was doing? Screwing that bastard Ivan."

"Oh, Lovi," Feliciano sighed. "She never was worth it."

"Yeah, well, you'd think that if you and a girl liked each other, she'd have the decency  _not_  to fuck everything else under the sun!" Lovino was shouting by now. "Even  _I_  don't do that when I've got someone. But no. This is what our world has come to. A bunch of whores and man-whores and precious few decent people. No, don't correct me. I know I'm close to being a man-whore myself. Happy? Now get the fuck out of my way and let me drink in peace."

He pushed past Feliciano none too gently, and five seconds later the study door slammed behind him. Feliciano stood there at the top looking after him, then shook his head.

"Poor  _fratello_... Antonio, are you there?"

"Yeah."

"How are you holding up? I'm sorry if that scared you. These are the only times Lovi really gets angry."

"It's fine." Antonio folded Lovino's jacket, picked up the keys and made his way upstairs. He was glad for the mundane task. "He has every right to be angry."

"I'm glad you understand," said Feliciano, following him. "It's mostly just hurt pride, since Lovi wasn't with her for that long. He'll get over it in a day or two."

Antonio entered Lovino's room and put his jacket on the bed, leaving the keys on the dresser as he went out. "That's good, I suppose."

"Yeah. Are you okay?" Feliciano peered at him. "You don't look that great yourself. Something happen with your friend?"

"No. Not really. Just a small disagreement."

Feliciano made a sympathetic noise. "I hope whatever it is clears up soon. If you ever want to talk I'm here, okay?"

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you." Antonio was grateful, he really was. Only he had no desire to talk to anyone at the moment. He thought he understood what Lovino was feeling. Feliciano must have noticed this because he stopped where he was.

"I'll leave you for a bit, then. There's nothing going on today, so feel free to rest. You'll need it, I bet."

"Yes, I think so too."

Antonio went into his room, shut the door and lay down on his bed. He wasn't in the least bit tired, nor did he want to sleep; but he didn't have any strength left to stand around aimlessly. His eyes traveled to the ceiling and he imagined himself floating on a calm blue sea under a turquoise sky. How peaceful it would be, he thought, to just drift through life without a care in the world. Maybe it wasn't the best choice, but sometimes it was the only choice. And at that moment Antonio thought he would have liked that choice.

Then came a short knock on the door. "Antonio?" Lovino's voice called through. Much gentler than before; almost no trace left of his previous anger. "Antonio, are you in there?"

"Yes." Antonio forced himself to get up and opened the door. "Is there anything you need?"

Lovino opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," said Antonio. "Yes, I am. What would you like me to do?"

The actor suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I – ah, it's nothing. I'll come talk to you later."

"No, I'm fine. It's okay. What is it?"

"I... well, I was going to ask if I could read your story, if you don't mind."

"My – my  _story_?"

"It's fine if you don't want me to. But I found it interesting. And I've read all the ones in the study." Lovino smiled wryly. "You didn't expect that, did you?"

"No," answered Antonio, and suddenly felt a little lighter. "Do you really want to read it?"

"Yes, of course."

"There aren't any pictures or introductions. Not even a plot summary. Just my messy writing. Are you sure?"

Lovino laughed, the sudden sound bringing Feliciano out of his bedroom. "I'm an actor, for heaven's sake – where do you think I get my scripts from? I've seen it all and more. Don't worry about me. If it's feedback you want, I'll tell you what I think when I'm done."

"You don't have to. But thank you all the same." Antonio went to get his manuscript and saw that page 76 was on the very top. "Oh – I forgot to put it back in order!"

"It's fine. Here, let me help you."

They spread the pages out on Antonio's desk and started sorting them, Lovino proving to be the faster of the two. He did have the sharpest eyes after all.

"I should have written all this in a notebook," said Antonio aloud, somewhat wistfully.

"Would've been a really big notebook. I think you should have bound this somehow. Or stapled it by chapter. How about we do that right now?"

"Sure."

Lovino found a stapler and went to work, occasionally punching it to make sure the staples went through, then finally losing his patience. Watching him abuse the device like it had personally offended him, Antonio couldn't help a laugh.

"What's so funny? I'm just venting my anger on this stapler. It's very helpful, you should try it too."

Antonio laughed again; he couldn't stop himself. All he knew was that he needed it. Lovino caught this and stared at him, with a mix of curiosity and some other unknown emotion.

"Do I have something on my face?" he demanded.

"No," gasped Antonio, leaning against the table to keep his balance.

"Well then, what is it? Do I smell? Did I put my shirt on backwards? Did I accidentally staple my pockets closed?" Lovino started checking just to make sure, and Antonio only laughed harder. What he didn't know was, that was exactly what Lovino had been aiming for.

And Feliciano stood outside in the hall, listening to their merriment and shaking his head in wonder.

"They could be great together after all," he murmured to himself, before going back to his own room to text Ludwig.

* * *

From that day onward, time seemed to pass more quickly in the Vargas household. After all, they only had a week left before the plane trip. Soon enough Lovino and Feliciano began worrying about packing and discussing how to manage the mansion in Lovino's absence, which often ended in many disagreements, though not terrible ones. Antonio, naturally, was caught up in the current of anticipation and helped out whenever possible.

And today was the day. Monday, the 29th of January.

Antonio almost didn't know what to feel. Half of him was powerfully excited at the prospect of a new setting, a new beginning; anywhere that wasn't New York or another oppressively bustling city, anywhere he could be calm enough to sort things out for both himself and Lovino.

But the other half of him felt even guiltier than before. Not only was he leaving his home of twelve years, but he was also leaving Francis and Gilbert – and what the latter thought of all this he knew very well. He had called them both, two days before the departure. Francis had been chipper enough to remind Antonio to "have fun," especially with all the pretty Austrian girls; Gilbert, though, had been strangely calm about the whole affair.

"Just Skype me whenever," was all he had said. Antonio didn't want to ask how he was and remind him of what had happened last Tuesday. Gilbert had already returned to New York and his job as a journalist. No need to make him come all the way to Austria this time.

Now he wasn't answering any calls. He had stopped picking up the day before. Antonio sighed, ending his latest call, and dropped his phone in his jacket pocket.

"Ready, guys?" Feliciano called from downstairs.

"Yeah!" Antonio called back, injecting a little enthusiasm into his voice and helping Lovino carry his suitcases and valises downstairs. Then he went back for his own. Tino helped them lift the luggage into the new van he'd be driving, while Feliciano watched from the living room window.

"I'm going to miss you guys," he said as they went back inside for a final round of hugs and (in Lovino's case) pats on the back. "It's been great having you here, Antonio. I can't wait for when you come back. The house has been so much brighter since you came here."

"I'll miss you too," returned Antonio, feeling his affection for Feliciano shoot through the roof. Lovino was left grumbling in the background.

"Why does Antonio always get the nicest goodbyes? What happened to your twin brother, hm?"

"I love you too, Lovi!" Feliciano shouted, throwing his arms around the older Vargas, who squirmed in his hold but returned the embrace anyway. "Skype me every night with Antonio, okay? Even if you're asleep. I just want to see your face."

"Fine, fine." Lovino ruffled his brother's hair roughly, earning a squeal of indignation, then went out with Antonio to the van. Tino had already started the engine.

"Ready, star passengers?" asked the chauffeur. Antonio and Lovino exchanged a look, followed by a smile, and then finally a laugh.

"You bet."

"Hell yes."

* * *

"What do you think, Antonio?" asked Lovino, settling back against the cushioned seat and glancing out the window. He had a wineglass in his hand as he observed the clouds, then turned back to Antonio. "I think I rather like these arrangements."

"This is fantastic."

"Of course. No fear of paparazzi either. Those shits are unbearable, but even more so on planes."

"That too."

"... You've been kind of quiet this whole time. Something wrong?"

"No." Antonio wondered if he should tell. It wasn't as though Lovino knew Gilbert; probably the only thing he remembered was Gilbert swearing at him during their first phone call. But there was no need to mention his name. He let out a breath. "Have you ever been liked by someone you don't know what to feel about?"

Lovino frowned and sat up straighter. "Who is this person?"

"It's not important who they are. Just a friend of mine. They've confessed their feelings and I don't know what to think at all." Antonio sighed. "I've always just thought of them as a friend, and nothing more."

"Is this someone very close to you?"

"Kind of? Well, yes, basically. I've known him for quite a long time now."

Lovino was silent for a minute. "Well... that means the ball is in your court. I get that you don't want to hurt your friend – but don't force yourself to feel something you don't. It'll only make you both unhappy."

"Then I probably just need more time."

"That's right. I'm probably not the best person to ask, since plenty of people throw themselves at me – hey, I'm not bragging! It's the truth!" Lovino laughed at the expression on Antonio's face, but sobered up somewhat. "Anyway, it's not as if I like every single one of them back. Same goes for you. You could pick whoever you like."

"You must be joking."

"Then this is a very serious joke."

" _Lovino_!"

"Okay, okay. I'll stop now." Lovino turned on the TV in front of his seat, but he was still smiling. Then it faded a little. "At least you have someone who truly cares about you that way. Me, I'm not so lucky."

"She just wasn't the right one, that's all."

Lovino smirked. "I like your word choice. But you know what I'd call her."

"Yes."

"Well... what would  _you_  have done in my place?"

"Me?" The question startled Antonio. He had not expected Lovino, of all people, to ask him for help – but maybe it was just another test. "Well, I – I wouldn't be too worried yet. Just because she was bad doesn't mean you can't find someone better. It all depends on where you look."

"And where would that be?"

Antonio pondered it briefly. "Somewhere you wouldn't ordinarily look, I guess? It's all relative."

"I'll keep that in mind then." Lovino tapped his chin thoughtfully, gazing at the Spaniard. "And I should probably start soon."

"I bet you'll find the one soon enough," said Antonio, trying to reassure him. "You have so many people following you, after all – you shouldn't have any problems."

Lovino shot him a sideways look, his expression indefinable. "I don't believe you."

"Two things: One, you're Lovino Vargas. Two, the world works in mysterious ways."

This brought a grin to Lovino's face. "That... actually reminded me of your book. Which I enjoyed."

Antonio had tensed involuntarily at the mention of his old novel, then relaxed a bit at the words, almost inclined not to believe them. "Really?"

"Really. I liked your plotline. Oh, and Leonardo too. Although he isn't as badass as me."

"That's true." They both laughed. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, Lovino. I never would have thought... well..."

"It took my mind off of  _her_ , but more than that it took me to a new place and time where I could really  _see_ things. And trust me when I say that there aren't many books that can do that. Acting is my job, but if a story can turn you into someone without your even trying, that's a good story in my book."

Antonio looked at him, saw the smile on his face and knew Lovino was sincere. And some of the weight he'd carried for so long seemed to lift off his chest.

"Thank you."

They talked until they grew tired – or rather, Lovino did because he had been drinking somewhat. Antonio couldn't help but observe, somewhat discreetly, as the older Vargas settled in his seat, reclined it back, and closed his eyes. In minutes he was asleep.

Still Antonio watched him, because something seemed different.

This was nothing like the mornings he'd gone to wake Lovino up and found the actor already awake, but having closed his eyes in the semblance of slumber. Or when Lovino actually happened to be asleep but awakened right away because he was, as he put it, a light sleeper. Over time Antonio had learned to tell the difference. And now Lovino was well and truly sleeping, his face serene, looking almost like an entirely different person, a young and innocent Lovino.

Antonio suddenly wanted very much to touch his face.

He found his hand moving dangerously in that direction and jerked back just in time. But he couldn't take his eyes off the handsome man sleeping next to him. He had never seen Lovino this way before and it was as if a star had fallen from the sky to rest in his palm.

There was nothing for it; the only way he could avoid looking at Lovino was if he closed his eyes.

So Antonio fell asleep. And awoke to find himself leaning on Lovino's shoulder.


	8. behind the eight ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the armor cracks.

Eventually the murky clouds around their windows gave way to solid ground, and a high female voice announced via loudspeaker that they were landing. People shifted and whispered among themselves. Lovino, meanwhile, knocked back the rest of his wine and let his eyes wander, taking in Antonio's fascination and the snow-covered landscape all at once.

Arrival, he thought.

This was the beginning.

They were still minutes from the runway, but he could already see church steeples and city walls and unassuming pockmarks of buildings breaking the white. Cars like insects down below. Roads like spiderwebs. And somewhere in the middle of all this was their destination, a comparatively tiny hotel room, overshadowed by a familiar empty slate of sky – just like that back home.

So this was Vienna, Austria.

Lovino kept looking but couldn't find the sun. And it was much too early even to think of counting stars.

He felt a strange sense of unease as they disembarked, two small human landmarks in a sea of many. Isolated. Beside him, Antonio looked as though the icy wind had personally roughed him up. Disheveled hair, rumpled clothes, a mix of excitement and worry in his face – standard tourist attire. Snowflakes fell and framed his lashes in glittering crystals.

No green here at all, except for his eyes.

The snow pelted them as they walked to the airport lobby, breath forming smoky clouds in the still air. Antonio was quiet the whole way. Lovino adjusted his scarf to cover the lower half of his face, pulled down his hat to shadow his eyes, and watched the Spaniard fumble adorably with the luggage. A carry-on had somehow latched onto his coat buttons, and would have emptied onto the ground, had Lovino not caught it just in time.

"What did I tell you, Antonio?" he sighed, though without any irritation. "Give me some luggage too. It's falling all over the place."

"But Lo – Feliciano," protested Antonio, taking the bag as if Lovino might tire simply from holding it. "You really don't have to. I'm here to do my job. I won't drop anything, Feliciano, I promise."

 _Feliciano_. The actor flinched, feeling suddenly grateful for his scarf. He was starting to understand exactly how his brother felt.

Momentarily Lovino recalled their drastic plans. Before the flight Alfred had insisted they keep a low profile – thanks to Bella and Lovino, Vienna was practically crawling with hungry paparazzi. They were walking straight into the shark's mouth. So Lovino had laid his own little scheme, independent of Bella. Since it was Lovino Vargas they were looking for, no Lovino Vargas would visit Austria – only Feliciano, a humble look-alike touring the country with his boyfriend. A bit over-the-top, yes, but completely necessary.

Lovino had even taken the liberty of swapping their passports prior to his departure. (After some coaxing, Feliciano had agreed it was all for the best.)

But all this exhausted him. At the end of the day, Lovino could only look at people like Antonio with a growing sense of envy.

So he stretched out his hand in indignation, with a frown for good measure.

"Come on, Antonio. Hand it over. You don't want to make me look useless here, do you?"

For a minute, Antonio seemed to seriously consider this point. Then he smiled brightly again.

"No."

Lovino gaped at him, though the effect was sadly lost behind his heavy scarf. It seemed Antonio really  _was_  intent on playing the considerate boyfriend.

"Good morning! You must be our esteemed passengers from Flight 7!"

The accented words, spoken in another high female voice, grated on Lovino's ears and he spun around in annoyance. A small woman with Bella's blonde hair and icy teeth and crimson smile met his gaze. All she lacked were the same acid-green eyes.

A spy, he thought irrationally.

"Mr. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo and Mr. Feliciano Vargas, am I correct?" she asked brightly, perhaps too brightly, checking their luggage labels and loading them onto a cart. Antonio gave a nod before bending to help her, and Lovino tried to smile through his eyes. "Well, it is quite a pleasure. Welcome to Vienna! Follow me this way, please."

She led them through an empty, polished hallway, carpeted handsomely, in which the clamor of travelers beyond faded to a mere murmur. Antonio and Lovino followed, side by side, in equal silence. Naked lights on the ceiling, in spherical depressions, shone gravely down upon them.

"You two must be tourists," the blonde went on. "Vienna is always bustling at this time of year. Where in the city are you headed, if I may ask?"

How conversational. "Nowhere at present," Lovino said abruptly, remembering just in time to link his arm through Antonio's. "We left in a hurry. Any hotel suggestions?"

This seemed to tickle her fancy. "Of course. There are many fashionable places here, each with its own specialty. Though I suspect you, sirs, would be very much at home with grandeur. For that I would recommend the Palais Coburg. An all-suite hotel, very close to some of our main attractions in Vienna."

Something about the way she said "attractions" disturbed Lovino. As if she knew just what they were after, and more.

"How will we get there, madam?" he asked, trying for politeness.

"No worries. There is a limousine waiting at the curb."

"Really?"

"Yes, it comes with the airline service."

He had heard nothing of the sort. And he had not asked for one through Antonio. Lovino glanced at his pretend boyfriend, whose eyes had grown wide with surprise in his still-red face. That was all the answer the Italian needed.

"Tell me, who the hell sent you to meet us?"

The blonde appeared completely unfazed; in fact, she rolled her eyes. "Well, sir. Going detective now? It took you long enough to find out."

"I saw through you from the start. It was Bella, wasn't it? I thought she had better taste in spies than this."

"And you are wrong again." She crossed her arms and met his eyes squarely. "I am not a servant of Bella, Mr. Vargas. Far from it. You know very well who else might be after you."

Lovino froze, a sinking feeling in his chest. "What do you mean? Who?"

The attendant smiled regally despite her short height. "Your memory is poor, I see. I will not spare you, then. You will know soon enough."

" _Tell me_!"

"Feli, come on!" shouted Antonio. Lovino turned and found him already at the end of the hall, luggage cart rolling ahead of him. The Spaniard flashed a thumbs-up, mouthed "EXIT," and pointed up ahead.

"This isn't the last you'll see of me," Lovino warned the blonde, then whipped off his hat and bolted.

Her shouts followed them several minutes through the corridor before quieting altogether. But the silence was short-lived, soon followed by additional, heavier footsteps echoing down the hall.

"Well, shit," Lovino muttered, pulling up his scarf. Antonio paused for a moment to look at him.

"What is it?"

"Reinforcements. What are we now, thieves? Can you hear them?"

"Yeah, let's run."

They reached the exit, and Antonio could not push the cart over the threshold; the minute he tried, an alarm began to ring. Splitting the luggage quickly, they raced outside, ignoring the many stares they received from pedestrians passing by. As the attendant had so kindly mentioned before, the limo was idling at the curb to their right. A bearded man stuck his head out the front window and shouted in German as they changed direction.

"Fuck you!" Lovino exclaimed over his shoulder, then, to Antonio, "What the hell did he say?"

Antonio grinned nervously. "That we should get into the car."

"Well, that isn't happening. I didn't come all this way to act out a fucking crime show!" As several uniformed men burst out of the airport exit, Lovino spotted a trademark yellow car rolling down the street, and dropped everything to wave his arms rapidly. "TAXI! TAXI!"

Thankfully, the car stopped – in the middle of the street, no less – and amid swears and honking Lovino vaulted into the back seat with his cargo. Antonio took a precious minute to haul the rest of the luggage into the trunk before squeezing in next to Lovino. At the driver's raised eyebrow, Lovino threw down a small pile of bills.

"No euros, sorry," said the Italian, not very apologetically. "You can change them later."

The driver looked like he might laugh, then asked something in German. Lovino glanced towards Antonio, who said something back.

"What was that?"

"He wants to know where we're going."

"Just drive! Drive," shouted Lovino.

So they accelerated till the airport and its security guards faded into the snowy distance. No one appeared to be following them, on foot or otherwise. Only then did Lovino let out a long sigh and lean back against the seat. Antonio was quiet beside him, but his face was still flushed pink from all the running and he sported an ear-splitting, victorious grin. The captivating little dimple had appeared again at the right corner of his mouth, and for the moment Lovino forgot the ominous message he had received from the blonde attendant.

"What now?" asked Antonio, endearing as usual.

"Call up the first hotel you can think of."

* * *

Some time later, Lovino collapsed on the couch with a groan, followed by a heavy blanket.

"Fuck, this place is colder than I expected."

"I'm sorry," said Antonio, ashamed. "I should have picked a better one."

"No, not your fault. I distinctly heard them mention 'adequately heated rooms' when you called." Lovino glanced around at the well-worn couches, the fading wallpaper, the slight dustiness of the windows and wondered if this was the kind of place Antonio frequented. "I assume this is their textbook adequate room."

"I sure hope not. I'll call up another as soon as I –"

"Don't worry too much, we can deal with that later. For now, we'll rest." Lovino shifted, trying to get comfortable, then gave up and remained sitting. He patted the space beside him for Antonio to sit down, and turned on the TV. Quiet white noise, like the crackle of a fireplace on a winter night. "This isn't too bad, now that I think about it."

"But it's not the best, either," said Antonio sadly, pulling on his own blanket. It had a pattern of what looked like tomatoes around the border. "To be honest I imagined you in one of those suites. With the velvet carpet, fancy lamps, canopied bed. You know."

"Really now."

"No." Antonio smiled sheepishly. "I don't have much of an imagination when it comes to hotels."

"Neither do I. Just expectations," declared Lovino and Antonio laughed, shivering a little. "Are you cold?"

"No."

He only betrayed himself by shivering again. Lovino shook his head at the Spaniard's pride – there really was no room for it here – and threw the other half of his blanket over Antonio. From how the Spaniard's eyes grew round as saucers, his cheeks heating up, Lovino knew he'd taken it the wrong way.

"Oh, stop it," he muttered, and to prove his point scooted closer. "It's just a damn blanket. Don't worry about it."

But even he found it hard to focus on this one solid fact as Antonio unconsciously shifted closer in return, his warmth radiating through Lovino's skin. For a second he remembered how Antonio had fallen asleep against him on the plane, how warm he'd also been then – but also the subtle frown on the Spaniard's face, the slight clenching of his hands into fists against the seats. And a curious desire rose within him, the sudden impulse to reach out and hold Antonio's hand, put his arm around him, something.

Feliciano had been right. They were getting close after all.

He found himself lost in the spring-green eyes returning his gaze – in the softness of Antonio's expression, the gentle set of his features. So authentic, so unlike anything Lovino had ever known. And yet it was everything he wanted now, everything he wanted to protect.

 _People are mirrors of each other_ , Lovino had heard often, had disregarded often, because actors like him were always mirrors – mirrors of a reality they never knew. But he couldn't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, that the reality he had lost long ago, the missing part of himself, had reappeared in a different form. In a different person.

In Antonio.

Close they were now, so very close. Antonio's soft-looking lips in the dimness of the room. It would be so easy, so easy to lean in, bridge the gap, allow himself to be drawn in by the magnets in Antonio's eyes. The Spaniard never looked away: and it seemed, from the infinite softness in his face, that he might just be thinking the same.

Three inches. Two. Then just one, and if only –

A shrill chord.

Breaking the silence, the possibility. His phone ringing.

"Shit," he whispered, and Antonio pulled away, looked away. The blanket had fallen around them, and he was cold again. But it was Alfred calling, and he had never hated the director so much as he did then.

"Hello? Alfred?"

"Lovino!" Alfred's very worried voice. "Where are you? What happened? Did you get lost? We've been waiting for you here for the past thirty minutes!"

* * *

 The little meeting Alfred had convened at his hotel, the Sacher Wien, wasn't much of an affair. Barely half the cast had showed up – but then again, this was the important half. Most of the minor actors and actresses probably weren't even here yet, having flown economy or made multiple stops or whatever it was they did. And as Alfred said, this was merely a check-in, nothing more. A very secret check-in, for which he had bribed the major hotel managers to keep their mouths shut.

Lovino didn't care.

"Paparazzi," Alfred kept repeating still. "Photographers, journalists. Everywhere. How are we supposed to work with all these spies in our way?"

And there he went with the  _spies,_  again. The incident from that morning replayed itself, with increasingly distressing intensity, in Lovino's already weary mind, and he couldn't help but wonder who the hell was bold enough to chase them between  _continents._ Because it definitely, absolutely couldn't be –

"Lovino!"

The voice he hated. He turned to meet the actress in her clicking heels and obscene perfume, disgusted by the fact that it would have ensnared him months ago.

"Hello, Bella," he said stiffly, aware of Alfred's eyes on them. "Nice to see you here in Vienna.  _Again_."

Bella blinked her large green eyes, the implication missing her brain by a mile. "Whatever do you mean? I only arrived this morning, just like you. I've been at the Palais Coburg up until now."

"So it  _was_ you."

"What are you talking about?" Bella giggled. "Did you have one too many beers on while on board? I see you brought Antonio to the party, too. Hello, Antonio."

 _Shut up_ , thought Lovino, seething.

But Antonio did not blush at her brightness; in fact, his expression hardly changed. He returned her greeting with a smile and that was all. Hiding his surprise, Lovino stepped in front of him and leaned close to Bella's ear. 

"Remember, Bella," he hissed, "there are times you can act and this isn't one of them. Who was that woman you had after us and why?"

"Woman?" repeated Bella, as if she had never heard of one before.

"She  _looked like you_ , dammit. Just try and tell me she wasn't your spy."

Bella stepped back, looking genuinely startled for the first time. "I swear, Lovino, she's not!"

"You can swear you've never sent anyone after me, ever?"

"I'm telling you the truth, Lovino." The actress drew herself up to her full height – which admittedly wasn't much, but that along with her looks would have been enough for any other man. "The only ones I had were in the States, and even they worked on and off. Do you really think I'd spend the money to fly them all here? Or spend what little time I have recruiting new ones? Like you did with Antonio?"

" _Don't_  bring anyone else into this."

"My mistake," amended Bella, with a teasing laugh to everyone present, as if she and the others had shared a terrific inside joke at Lovino's expense. "Anyway, as I said before, I have no one here. Though since you asked so nicely, I might consider it for the future. Now, why don't I get you a drink so you don't burst a precious blood vessel?"

"I'm sure Alfred would appreciate your company more. I don't need an aneurysm."

Barely restraining a glare, Lovino grabbed Antonio's arm and herded him to the other end of the room. He could still feel Bella's gaze on the back of his head, and it was not a friendly gaze in the slightest.

"I should leave," Antonio whispered, his cheeks pink as he stared at Lovino's hand on his wrist. Lovino let go quickly and frowned at him.

"And wait outside in the cold by yourself? I think not. Let's go together, I'm done here."

He passed Alfred on the way out and they exchanged cordial, if not friendly goodbyes. Lovino already knew everything he had to. They were to have one week maximum to settle down in Vienna, then meet in Leopoldstadt five days a week for the filming. For Lovino, that meant he had to keep a low profile, keep to the director's good graces, keep being on time and keep Antonio safe.

"Come on," he said impatiently, tugging Antonio into the hall with him, intending to return to the cold hotel room and its cold TV and its cold drinks, settle down, and let that be the end of that.

But he never counted on running into the pale-haired woman at the door, the pale-haired woman with eyes of ice and skin of glass, and that was when the mask he had so carefully constructed over the years finally cracked.

* * *

 They both stopped short upon seeing each other. He in shock, she in mere recognition.

Regal. Queenly. Head held high. Contemptuous, glacial, beautiful eyes, gleaming sapphires at the bridge of her aquiline nose. Skin like porcelain. Voice like amber.

She was exactly as he remembered her.

"Well, well," she said, the measured accent in her voice a touch beyond musical. "If it isn't Lovino Vargas. Lovino Romano Vargas. Long time no see, my dear."

"You – what –"

All those years ago. Thirty-five now. Here. Smiling.

Why?

"A little bird might have told me you were here," she said, her mouth a placid curve. "What a shame, I wanted it to be a surprise. For you. Blondie's father was an ex-KGB agent. Pity she wasn't up to the standard."

"What?" Something was eating him alive, but not simply the rage it had always been. Something that made his heart and bones ache, with remembrance and understanding. "Why – why are you here? I thought you –"

"I'd forgotten how blunt you were, Lovino." Another little, ungenuine smile. "No,  _lyubov_. A simple change of hotels. I've been here for the last few months. And my lips are sealed for you. Why don't you come visit sometime?"

"I –"

She took his hand, the touch sending shivers up his spine. He couldn't have pulled away even if he tried. And now she was writing on his palm,  _Sacher Wien,_ and a room number. She finished and closed his fingers around the words.

"Now you know where I am. Come find me when you can."

Her hand trailed along his cheek for a moment; it seemed even colder than the snow falling outside the windows. Then she passed him, her fur wrap trailing slightly after her, before she pulled it tighter around her wintry shoulders. Lovino watched her go in silence, unaware of Antonio shouting after her, asking who she was. The snow princess, the porcelain woman, the delicate little doll.

He couldn't seem to look away.

And inside him, a long-dormant storm began, once more, to rage.

* * *

_"Madam, he's just a busboy. Should I send him away?"_

_"No, let me see him. I love dedication in young people. And dedication to me – well, that's always a welcome thing..."_

_A boy in hotel uniform, about fifteen or sixteen, is ushered into the room. There isn't much of his olive-toned skin that hasn't paled somewhat from days indoors; he's willowy at best, but his height is decent. Anyone with a good eye can envision the build he'll put on with the proper living conditions. But for now he's a hotel boy. The woman sees all this and more as she wraps her expensive fur shawl around her, eyes following him into the room._

_"Ah, he's not bad-looking for his age. Come here, come here. What's your name?"_

_"Vargas, ma'am."_

_"Hmm." She tilts his chin up with one finger and inspects his face. Vargas stares back at her boldly. There is fire in his eyes, flashing many colors in the dim lighting. "Tell me your name again. First and last."_

_"Lovino, ma'am. Lovino Vargas."_

_"I heard you very much wanted to see me. Why is that?"_

_"Because you can help me."_

_"Oh?" She raises an eyebrow. "That will depend on your request. Though I suspect it is anything but ordinary."_

_"It isn't."_

_"All right. What is it you want, Lovino?"_

_"I want to be famous, ma'am. I want to become an actor. I know how to do it, but I only need a way into the industry."_

_"And what makes you think I will help you, out of all the little boys out there who want to do the same?"_

_"Because I am good at this, ma'am. I won't rest until I become the richest and most famous of them all." Lovino's eyes blaze bright, and they light up his face in such a way that an inkling of what he will become occurs to the woman. "I only need your help, and I will pay you back."_

_"How so?"_

_"I know about your organizations and your charities. I will support them whenever I can."_

_"Well." She picks lightly at her shawl, inspecting him from head to toe, and her gaze is for now less than pleased. "I find that very unlikely, if at all possible. It seems your dreams precede you, child. Give them some time, and find someone else more willing." A wave of the hand. "Dmitry, escort him out, will you please."_

_"No, ma'am, wait!" Lovino breaks free and runs to her side again. "Please. You're my last hope. I'll do anything you want."_

_The lady considers this for a minute._

_"Anything?"_

_"Yes."_

_"In that case..." She reaches out and strokes his cheek. Lovino flinches. "Look at you. Your skin is cold, very cold. That's why you're so pale, dorogoy. But put on a little weight and some color in those cheeks and you'd be a different story. You'd be very handsome, Lovino. The talk of the country maybe, even the world."_

_Lovino's cheeks flush red, but his eyes are still sharp. "What exactly do you need in exchange from me?"_

_"Something very simple. As simple as you would like it." She draws him closer by the arm. "Dmitry, leave us alone for a minute, won't you?"_

_"Yes, Miss Arlovskaya."_

_She smiles, and Lovino shivers, but even if he could leave the power is beyond him now. He sees all that is within reach. And so she pulls him to her, the doorman laughs quietly, the lights fall around them._

_So the nightmare runs to its end._

* * *

... and yet, yet. He was there again now, cold and sticky and tangled in her sheets, and Natalya Arlovskaya was laughing at him in the darkness, that same toneless laugh that first taught him not to trust anyone in the world, including himself.

"So, you've proved yourself, you think?" she asked calmly, her cold eyes following him through the motions of sit up, dress, turn away. "You're young and I'm not, you've got power and I don't. And you crossed the finish line again. Shall we call it a victory?"

"Call it whatever you like. This was the last time."

"Really? After all these years?"

"Don't bring them back again."

"But I can. So I will." She was smiling and he could feel her smugness wash over him, without having to look at her, without any acknowledgement whatsoever. "I made you, Lovino. Lifted you out of the dust and dirt you were scraping through. Made you into a real man. Helped you succeed. You aren't the slightest bit thankful for that?"

"The only person who  _made_  me was myself."

"But I found you a job. Even you must admit you needed my help for that. My, but you're an ungrateful little boy, Lovino Vargas."

"I said, let it go. It's been years. I've already repaid you in full."

"Not yet." He heard her shifting, pulling on her robe. "I have one last request to make of you. Then we'll part ways,  _forever_ , if you so desire. Just this once, I need your help."

"With something other than sex? I must admit, I'm surprised."

"So be it." Natalya stood up, went around the bed and leaned against the wall in front of Lovino. "Does the name Ivan Braginsky ring a bell? Any bell?"

Lovino tensed and avoided her gaze. "Can't say it has."

"I believe, according to my sources, that he was last seen in Los Angeles, with a certain supermodel by the name of –"

"Just tell me what the hell you want with him, and make it quick. Or I'm going to leave right now."

"Well." Natalya's eyes fixed on a point far above Lovino's head. "If you must know, he's the reason I'm alone. Had he only listened to me, we'd be together by now. Married. The whole works."

"Then it's a lost cause. I can't help you there."

"Nothing is lost with the time and the means."

"You have both. Why do you need me?"

"To arrange something simple, without my name being involved. Some large occasion. Invite us both. Fling us together, even. I know you can do it, Lovino. You've done  _so_ much more than that before."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. You're shocked? I should have expected that. But the tables turn, Lovino. The tables turn." Natalya smiled another of her cold smiles, this one slightly more fragile. "I must be getting mellow. But out of the kindness of my heart, I'd tell you not to repeat my mistakes. Hold on to the things you care about. The people you care about. Your little Antonio is one of a kind. Don't lose him to someone who doesn't care."

"Don't you dare interfere with him, or I'll end you."

"That's the Lovino I was waiting for." She ran her fingers through his hair, and he pulled away. "So, do we have a deal,  _lyubov_?"

"Stop calling me that. And for the record, I didn't come here to be blackmailed."

"No." Natalya quirked her lip. "You can think on it. That's all."

* * *

He demanded five beers when he finally came back. Antonio said nothing, asked no questions; only went and bought them, five very small drinks, then sat near Lovino and watched him drink. The expression in his eyes was something Lovino had never seen before, something indefinable. A whirlpool. What Lovino would've given to know his thoughts.

"Do you want any?" he asked, waving one of the unopened bottles. He was already halfway through his first.

"No." Antonio didn't say anything else for a long moment, staring at the table as if collecting his thoughts from the surface. "If you don't mind my asking... Who was that woman we saw earlier?"

"You don't know who she was?" Lovino laughed, startling himself; he sounded so much like Natalya just then. "Her name's Arlovskaya. Natalya Arlovskaya. Russian supermodel. Former actress. Why?"

"Nothing." Another pause. "Are you all right?"

"What makes you ask that?"

"You never drank this much before. Not even with Carlota." Those strong green eyes fixed on him now, and something inside Lovino cracked further. The Spaniard was pained by his drinking. Why hadn't he noticed before? "What happened, Lovino?"

"Nothing. Nothing important."

Antonio frowned, the expression strangely sad on him. As though he wanted to say something badly, but had to restrain himself. "Is there anything else you want me to do?"

It was so hard to refuse. But so hard to say what he really wanted. Because that was impossible and had always been. He just hadn't realized it soon enough.

"Get me a glass of water."

Antonio did so. Lovino downed it and felt the cold seeping through his insides.

"Make me some coffee. Black."

Antonio did this too. Lovino had to let it sit for a minute, it was too hot. 

"Get me your book."

Antonio, after a minute's hesitation, fished out the manuscript from his suitcase. It was wrinkled and old now. Lovino felt much the same way.

"Sit here."

Antonio sat.

"Read to me."

Antonio turned to the first page. " _His world was bleeding. Darkness and light, in equal proportions. He was only a small part of it, a mere speck in existence; but he felt the wound as deeply as if it had pierced his own heart._ "

Lovino closed his eyes. Then opened them again. Turned to Antonio, threw his arms around the Spaniard's neck and didn't, didn't let go.

* * *

He awoke to blinding darkness. It took his eyes a minute to adjust, and he knew by the tough surface underneath him that he was on the couch, with a blanket over his shoulders. A thin little hotel pillow tucked under his cheek. Bottles littering the table nearby, though he couldn't tell whether they were open or not.

Of course. His standard, familiar routine. Just like the old days, when he was still hoping for a chance in the spotlight and shoved continuously into the background.

But he was here now. Lovino Romano Vargas. A man whose name preceded him wherever he went – leapt cities and countries and continents, even. And yet here he was in darkness.

Typical.

A soft shifting from somewhere beside him. He looked and saw Antonio sitting on a stool, slumped against the arm of the couch next to Lovino's face, his head buried in his arms. His back rose and fell gently with every breath. He made a small noise in his sleep and inched closer, infinitesimally, to where Lovino lay.

Lovino reached out and let the tips of his fingers ghost across Antonio's hair.

* * *

The next morning, they talked to Feli over Skype.

He seemed happy. So, so happy. He told them things with Ludwig were going great, bless him. He told them about Ludwig's love for design and love for animals and love for (surprisingly) Italian things. But he still couldn't work up the nerve to tell Ludwig that he wasn't Lovino.

Lovino told him not to go on living a lie (also a lie since he was doing the same himself), and maybe that was where his brother heard the truth.

"You look tired. What's wrong? Is the filming not going well?" Feli, concerned, peered at him through the computer screen. But there was only so much he could see. Grainy pixels were all Lovino could make out through the camera, no matter how hard he stared.

How much, he wondered, could one be reduced to until there was nothing left?

"Did you drink?" Feli asked worriedly and both Antonio and Lovino fell silent. One out of consideration, the other from secrecy. What was the difference?

"Maybe. It doesn't matter."

"Lovino! What are you talking about? Of course it matters! What happened?"

"Nothing."

He hadn't told anyone. Didn't plan on it either, not anytime soon. And Feli wasn't supposed to know. But Antonio could guess. It seemed the only one not attuned to his own whims and needs was Lovino himself.

"It's not much, honestly. I... still think about her. Carlota."

A good lie, because there was no point in worrying his brother anyway. Feliciano had spent his first twenty-five years in relative bliss, painting in Italy, with both mother and Nonno to watch over him. Now they were gone and he was here, but what had changed, really? Feliciano's world had still moved with him; it was still one of unparalleled brightness and color, and Lovino didn't want to tarnish any of it.

So. What Feli didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And there were many things about Lovino he didn't have to know.

Antonio gazed at him, a strange searching gaze, for a long moment after the call ended.

"Are you feeling better today?" he asked finally, gently. Unwilling to break the pregnant silence between them. So many unspoken truths hung terrible on the gossamer line. The thin line that connected them both, that Lovino didn't want to break for the world.

And all he said was, "I'm fine," even though he wasn't, even though all he wanted was for Antonio to hold him back, genuinely, and never let go. He knew, with a hollowness deep in his chest, that it was too much to hope for. He was an empty vessel and Antonio was still living, still reaching, still too young to be choked by the grimness of the world.

So Lovino turned away from the sheer drop down into reality, not knowing that he had already fallen. Fast and hard, as he never had before, with no hope whatsoever of a safe return.


	9. seeking cloud nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When shit goes down and tempers go up, sometimes the only way out is through.

Several days later Antonio found himself before his computer screen, squinting at Gilbert's pixellated image and wondering what to say.

"So, uh." He shifted slightly in his seat and Gilbert did too, the air suddenly heavy despite the distance between them. Antonio cleared his throat to get the words out. "How have you been?"

"Fine... just fine."

But Gilbert's appearance betrayed just how _not_ fine he was. There were heavy bags under his eyes, his face looked subtly thinner, and his hair was sticking up wildly in all directions. The latter worsened considerably as he ran his hand through it. Antonio almost wanted to smooth it down for him.

"Well – that's good to hear, Gil," he said with care, though he very much wanted to mention otherwise. At last he threw all caution to the wind. "You look really tired, though –"

"So do you," countered Gilbert, almost accusingly. "You're quieter than you usually are, and that's saying a lot."

Antonio flinched and backed away slightly from the screen, grateful for the darkness of the living room. Since when had talking to a friend become so difficult? "I've... just been thinking about when I can come back," he lied, guiltily. "I haven't completely forgotten you guys, you know."

"Oh, well, that's definitely nice to know." A hint of sarcasm had entered Gilbert's voice. "At least Lovino hasn't replaced me yet, or so it seems. But I'm a patient man. It's one of my virtues. You two have plenty of time to work through that chemistry."

"Gil, _stop_. This has nothing to do with Lovino, okay?"

Gilbert snorted. "Don't play dumb with me, Antonio, this has everything to do with him. Lovino's the only reason you left this state and this country, and nothing _I_ did could ever get you to stay with me. Just go ahead and tell me I matter more than him. I'll believe you."

And they were now back to square one. Antonio struggled to retain his composure.

"Well, I don't know how we can talk if you can't believe a word I say! Why do you have to be so _jealous_ , Gil?"

"What does it matter if I am?" Gilbert shot back, flushing pink. "Do I have to give up everything because you rejected me? Am I forbidden to worry about you now?"

"No, but not like _this_!" Antonio exclaimed. "I already gave you all my reasons and you're just trying to guilt-trip me back into your arms!"

"Oh, so I don't even have the right to want you, do I?"

"You always take things too far, Gil, and this is one time too many!"

"From the way you blame me for everything that happens, anyone would think we weren't even _friends_ –"

" _Stop_! Fucking stop it, you two! _Arrêtez_!"

And Francis shoved his way in, looking more terrifyingly angry than Antonio had ever seen him. Gilbert automatically moved to the side to let him sit, and Francis fixed them both with a reproachful glare. When he finally spoke again his voice was dangerously quiet.

"What the hell do you two think you're doing?"

Neither Antonio nor Gilbert spoke. Francis inspected their faces for a bit longer, then let out a harsh breath.

"I never thought," he said evenly, "that I'd live to see my two best friends destroy their friendship over a simple 'I love you.' Does that sound even remotely ridiculous to you? Or are you living a delusion?"

Again he received no response.

"All right, I think a refresher is in order." Francis pursed his lips. "Do you remember when we first met in college? It was three to a room and we just so happened to be roommates. We disagreed a lot, didn't we? Gilbert talked our ears off, I chased skirts, you just wanted to write in peace. At first it felt like the worst match of the century. _But we made it work_. We stuck together because we could see, beneath the surface, that there was a regular young man in each of us, with noble hopes and dreams." The Frenchman sighed. "We made it through college, through journalism training, through our actual jobs, through life in general. Five years. We're basically a family now. Sure, Antonio's not in the U.S. anymore, and sure, some feelings got shifted around, but does that change the fact that we three are all we've got? If some time apart is enough to shatter our relationship, what does that say about all of us?"

Francis looked from one to the other, face tired and voice spent, and the guilt settled deeper in Antonio's chest. He had not been considerate enough to either of his friends. First and foremost, Gilbert had both feelings and work to deal with, just as much as Antonio; and Francis, caught in the crossfire of their stormy feud, was bound to get hurt the most as an outsider.

It wasn't worth it to lose them both like this.

"I'm sorry," he said then, and meant every word. "I didn't mean to hurt any of you, and not even realizing it was stupid of me. It's my fault and – and I really hope you can –"

"No," Gilbert interrupted, his eyes downcast, "it's mine. I should have considered your feelings more."

"That makes two of us then," said Antonio with a weak laugh. "I'm not angry with you anymore. I never should have been in the first place." Hesitantly, he stretched out a hand and touched the spot where his friend's face hovered, expression mirroring his own. "Will you forgive me, Gilbert?"

"You don't even need to ask," said Gilbert roughly, reaching out as well. "Before anything else, we're friends. I'll never forget that again."

Francis, who had been watching them both, finally cracked a smile. "Ah, I'm glad. I don't want to lose either of you guys."

"You never will."

"Promise?"

"Promise," Antonio and Gilbert said at once.

"Good." Francis touched the screen briefly and stood up, his expression now soft. "Well, it's 2 a.m. now, and the diligent Frenchman needs some beauty sleep for work tomorrow. Toni, text me when you can chat again, _d'accord_? Gil, you'd better head in too." The display went dark for a minute, as Gilbert hugged the laptop to his chest.

"Let me talk to Antonio for a few more minutes."

"All right, but you have an article to write tomorrow. Don't forget! Good night, Antonio. Or good morning. We'll talk again soon." Francis waved and disappeared around the corner; Antonio heard his loud yawn and then the springy sound of his body hitting the bed. He laughed, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice.

"Hey, Antonio." Gilbert came back into view with a hesitant smile. "So, uh – I never actually asked you how you were doing."

Antonio couldn't stop himself; it felt good to laugh again.

"Oh _Dios_ _mio_ , Gil, you're adorable."

Gilbert blushed, his hopeful little smile growing wider. "Really?"

"Yes, you're killing me. Stop it!"

"No. So – how's Austria treating you?"

"Great. It took me a day or two to adjust, but I'm fine now. Look at this!" Antonio lifted his laptop so that the webcam faced out the window, toward the cityscape, and was rewarded by Gilbert's pleased exclamation.

"You're getting the best snow – not too heavy, not too thin. Did you know we're expecting a blizzard over here?"

"Don't sound so excited, Gil, that's terrible! And you're not marching around in that snow without a scarf. Remember what happened last time."

Gilbert laughed, a sound the Spaniard realized he had sorely missed.

"You always worry so much, Antonio. I love you."

And Antonio didn't know why his heart chose that precise moment to do a somersault in his chest. Just three words, three simple words – how had they managed to change everything? How could Gilbert say them so easily, so naturally, without question?

"I – you – you should really go to sleep now, Gil, it's getting late. You still have work tomorrow."

"I will." Gilbert met his eyes again, and this time his gaze was steady. "Antonio... could you say it too?"

"What?"

"I – I know you don't want to think about it, and I know you want more time, but..." His friend stared at the floor, looking suddenly forlorn again. "I... just really want to hear you say it. Just once. Please?"

"I..."

"Antonio?"

"I... I love you too."

For a minute, Gilbert's mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Then he lunged forward and planted a kiss on the webcam.

"Goodnight, Antonio," he whispered to the equally speechless Spaniard. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Goodnight, Gil."

Long after his friend had logged off, Antonio remained staring at the empty screen, thinking of how Gilbert's face had lit up, how hopeful his voice had sounded, simply from hearing those three words. What a difference it would make if Antonio only returned his feelings. Gilbert would lose that melancholy look he had carried in his eyes for so long; in return he'd gain that boisterous smile meant for his face alone. He'd be enthusiastic about life and work again, make terrible jokes as usual, bother Antonio and Francis with his characteristic fondness. In a word, he'd be happy.

But then there was Lovino.

Lovino, who as an employer had been surprisingly friendly to him. Lovino, who had comforted Antonio when the Spaniard had needed it most. Lovino, who really was similar to Gilbert in the way he dealt with his sorrows. Lovino, who had been sitting here with Antonio less than a week ago, talking and laughing and then, impossibly, leaning forward to steal a kiss...

Right when Antonio thought he had reached the clear, here he was again, before a fork in the road.

And there was no one – no one – who could help him choose.

"Were you talking to someone just now?"

Antonio glanced up so fast he almost hurt his neck. The front door was open and Lovino stood there in front of it, his face carefully blank. Somehow, terrifyingly, the Spaniard had not heard him come in. What if Lovino had been here the whole time, just standing there, quietly listening and drawing conclusions –

"Yes, I – I was talking to my friends," said Antonio, perhaps a little too quickly. "You're back early, Lovino! Would you like something to eat?"

"No, it's fine. Go on with your conversation, I don't mean to interrupt."

"I already –"

"It's fine," said Lovino abruptly, his voice uncharacteristically stony. "I just need to get something and then I'll leave."

Before Antonio could respond, the actor strode into his room and slammed the door behind him. Antonio could hear him pulling open drawers, shifting things around, shutting closet and cabinet doors. Then came a series of scattered thuds, as if multiple objects had been thrown simultaneously. Without a second thought the Spaniard leapt up and ran to the bedroom, carefully opening the door and peering in.

"Lovino, what happened? Are you okay? Do you need any help?"

Lovino glanced up at him from the various bottles, books, boxes and other small items spread across the floor. His eyes were hard.

"No."

Antonio crouched down next to him anyway. But the moment he reached out Lovino swatted his hand away.

"Don't worry about it," he said almost vehemently, and threw everything back onto the table. A pair of sunglasses fell to the floor, but he ignored it. "I don't need your help."

"What's wrong, Lovino? If there's anything I can do for you –"

"There isn't. I really need to go, Antonio." The actor brushed past him and quickly made his way to the front door. Before he opened it, however, he turned back. "I'll be gone for a while, so make yourself busy. You can go out if you want, but be back before dark."

Without so much as a goodbye he exited, slamming the door angrily behind him, leaving Antonio alone in the newly empty room.

The Spaniard could only wonder at the hollow feeling that arose in his chest.

* * *

It was noon when Antonio finally went outside. The sky was gloomy as usual, only a pale spot marking the sun's location, and snowflakes fell continuously from heavy grey clouds. Still there were plenty of tourists – groups of boys laughing about girls, groups of girls giggling about boys; younger couples window-shopping, older couples strolling. Antonio felt lonely among them. Making only a mental note of where his hotel was, he drifted past it and let his feet guide him through the snow, taking his own path through the myriad chatter and infinite variety of human life.

Against all probability, he found himself in the nearest bookstore.

From the outside it had appeared small and plain; the inside was a completely different story. Long windows lined its walls and ceilings, throwing white light so enticingly on the books in their paths that he couldn't help but look at them. They were everywhere – from the solid wooden bookcases on the walls to the rotating plastic shelves around him, and even the simple metal racks propped by the doors for lack of space. He couldn't walk an inch without seeing them.

So many different sizes, shapes, colors, depths. Just like the people beyond the glass. Each one a story, a heart-dialogue, penned from the echoes of a footstep, a fallen note, a tilt of the hat, a fold of the scarf. And what would Antonio's be among these multitudes? Would his moments melt cleanly into the rows of the uniform and plain-covered? Or would they occupy a shelf all their own, catching the blazing light of the sun and sunny eyes?

But the question remained unanswered, and he could only wonder.

With a sigh, he turned away from the variety around him and made to leave. And then, as he passed a well-lit shelf by the door, he spotted it.

A very thin paperback, it was: a thin red paperback sitting calmly to his right, plain but for the words written boldly in black. **_Six Characters in Search of an Author_** _._ He thought for a moment and then he remembered.

 _It's a play within a play, it's_ _dramatic, it's illogical and distorts your sense of reality..._

_You'll have to read it._

He picked it up and balanced it in his hand. How misleading it was, that this light little book could be so heavy with knowledge, that a simple cover could hide so many secrets. Its pages, both German and English, were slightly worn at the edges – as if someone had once flipped through them lovingly, then returned it to the store for another to pick up.

Antonio brought it to the cash register, where the store owner smiled at him; her sky-blue eyes, framed by straight blonde hair, were gentle behind her thick glasses. She quite surprised him by speaking in English.

"Pirandello," she said softly, glancing at the cover. "So you've a taste for the surreal."

"I guess you could say that," Antonio murmured. "How did you know I speak English?"

A small, demure laugh. "First, you do not look German in the slightest, and second, you chose the one book with an English translation."

"I see. Do you often get tourists around here?"

"Sometimes, they come and go. That's why we always have books in different languages. It makes reading accessible for everyone, you know?"

Antonio couldn't help noticing how young she looked for a store owner. She had to still be in college. "So you run this place all by yourself?"

"No, I'm only an employee. I don't think I'd do too well as a boss." The girl shrugged, a little self-consciously. "I'm a Canadian transfer student. And you, what brings you here to Austria?"

"Not much. I happen to be an employee too."

"Oh, well... I never would have guessed." She scanned the book at the register. "I picked you up for a writer when I first saw you come in. You don't look like the type to be bound to people."

Antonio's smile came out a little pained. "That's a pretty far-off guess."

"I'm not often wrong, mind you. Especially not with my kind," said the girl, meeting his gaze squarely. "That will be 5.34 euro, sir."

"My name's Antonio."

"Nice to meet you, Antonio. I'm Madeleine."

"It's nice to meet you too." Antonio paid for the book and thanked her. "Have a great day."

"Same to you. Happy reading!"

He couldn't help but think, as he left, that she looked somewhat familiar. Perhaps it was a small world after all.

* * *

The next few hours, which he spent at a small café, passed in a blur. One moment Antonio was inspecting the first page over an apple strudel and coffee; then he was reading voraciously, all food and drink forgotten, caught up in the scenes unfolding before him by a true master's hand. Lovino had been right about the play after all. It was like stumbling into a funhouse mirror to tell the story of what lay beyond, then simultaneously layering on reality.

Was this how Lovino felt, then? Could this be the world he lived in?

Antonio could only think, and remember, and wonder.

His head was spinning by the time he finished, his coffee gone cold long ago. The clock on a nearby wall read 3 p.m., confirmed by the relatively high position of the pale sun. It was still early. That was really when he should have headed home, but somehow it never occurred to him. Instead Antonio thought he'd take a short nap before going back; that way, he told himself, he wouldn't be caught sleeping on the job.

But the odds were not in his favor. When he finally awoke the clock read 5 p.m., and a barista was shaking his shoulder, asking him in polite German to make space for the evening customers. Antonio promptly rushed outside and hailed the first taxi he could find.

"Where to, sir?" asked the driver, as soon as Antonio had thrown down some money. The Spaniard named his hotel and street.

"Please make it quick," he said nervously, glancing outside at the black-and-purple sky. Lovino was going to be furious. Antonio dug through his pockets but couldn't find his phone, then remembered he'd set it down on the table before leaving the hotel. How very convenient. "Damn it!"

As if things couldn't get any worse, the driver kept peering in the rearview mirror, getting more and more worried the entire time. Five minutes later, at a red light, he turned to Antonio.

"Sir?" he inquired again. "Do you recognize that black car behind us?"

* * *

His key card, unfortunately, happened to be in his phone case instead of his pocket, so Antonio gave up hope of sneaking in quietly. The room door with its tarnished number and faded paint had never looked so intimidating. He stood in front of it for several minutes, thoroughly ashamed of himself, before finally raising his hand to knock.

Loud, demanding footsteps, and then the door swung open to reveal a very angry Lovino.

"So you finally decided to come back," he said flatly, and stepped aside. He looked dangerously composed, like a bomb ready to explode. "Come right in."

"I'm sorry, Lovino," murmured Antonio, "I really didn't mean to –"

"Did you now? I wouldn't have guessed." Lovino approached the table quietly and then slammed his hand on it, making the Spaniard jump. "Did you know how many times I tried to call you, Antonio? I think I lost count after ten, after you _didn't answer a single one_." He reached into his pocket and pulled out Antonio's phone. "There's a reason why we keep these, you know – to contact each other when we need to, especially when you need to be back at a certain time before dark and it's _been_ dark for two hours already, Antonio! What the hell happened? Where did you even go?"

With a start, the Spaniard realized Lovino really _had_ been worried – about Antonio himself, no less. That made him feel even worse than before.

"I only went to the bookstore," he admitted, and Lovino's eyes darted to the book in his hand. "Then I fell asleep in a coffee shop and woke up late. I took the first taxi I could to get here but there was someone –"

"Following you, huh?" Lovino shook his head, sending his dark expression out the window. "That had to have been Natalya, or some of her cronies. Bitch never keeps her word..." He paused at Antonio's quizzical gaze. "Well, let's just say you weren't the only one stalked today."

"Oh."

"Yeah. That does it, we're switching hotels tomorrow morning. But before you go pack" – Antonio stopped in his tracks – "let me see what you bought."

Lovino held out his hand and Antonio put the book in it. The Italian's eyes widened as he read the title.

" _This_ book," he said, and his voice was softer now. "How did you find it?"

"There was a used bookstore down the block and – well – it was just there on a shelf and I found it by chance." Antonio smiled, remembering. "I thought I'd read it since you mentioned it, and I get what you mean now. There's a fine line between acting and reality and a lot of the time that line gets blurred."

Lovino stared back at him, his expression unfathomable. "And what do you think about that?"

"I think... it happens to everyone, even the best of us. We all want to walk on steady ground, but sometimes it gets swept out from under us; that's out of our hands. And when that happens there's about two things you can really do: take the free fall or ride the air."

The Italian said nothing at first, but there was a storm in his eyes. He sat down on the couch, before the two empty and two unopened bottles on the coffee table, and uncorked a new one.

"I wish there was a middle ground," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly that. If you fall, you're done for – you just fall. And even if you fly, like Icarus, you'll eventually come back down and fall again." Lovino turned the bottle around in his hands, then took a long swig. "In the middle, it would be easy. You could still fall, you could still fly – you'd always have those two choices, but you could live your whole life without choosing."

"So have you found it, then? This middle ground?"

Lovino shrugged. "Not for myself... but I think I've found someone who has."

"Who?"

"You."

"Me." Antonio blinked, feeling his face grow warm, but the Italian's eyes didn't waver. "There isn't much special about me at all."

"Well, that's where you're wrong, Antonio. You're neither young nor old. You haven't found yourself, but you haven't lost yourself either. You haven't achieved yet but you haven't fallen. You have the world's potential in your hands, and you can do whatever you want with it. _That's_ what I mean by the middle, Antonio."

"And you? Aren't you also –"

Lovino laughed harshly. "You may as well ask Icarus why he never found land."

He poured the wine into a glass, swirling it, and Antonio marveled at how it gleamed under the dim light, like liquid ruby.

"So you drink," he said slowly, "because you don't want to feel the fall."

The actor's hand tightened around the bottle, and for a minute he stared at it wordlessly. Then he lifted it to his mouth. "I guess you could put it that way."

"... I want to try it too."

Lovino's eyes flickered to him. "There are some things you're better off without."

"But it never hurts to try."

Impulsively, he uncorked a bottle and brought it to his lips. The first draught was like fire down his throat, burning a trail straight through his body. Lovino still hadn't stopped laughing by the time Antonio finally choked it down.

"I told you, Antonio, it doesn't work for everyone. Put it back down. I'll drink it."

Antonio tried again. This time the burn had lessened somewhat, dissipating into gentle warmth. Several more sips and the fire was gone entirely. "It's not that bad, really."

"Oh, that means it's getting to you." Lovino shook his head and made to take the bottle back, but Antonio moved it out of his reach, and tipped some more down his mouth. "I can't believe it. Why are you even doing this?"

"I want to know how the fall feels like."

"You stupid boy," sighed Lovino. "And what could you ever hope to gain from that?"

"Nothing."

"Then _why_?"

"Because if you're falling, and I'm falling too, then maybe you won't feel so alone."

Lovino made a strangled noise that could have been a laugh, if it hadn't died down so suddenly, if it hadn't failed to reach his eyes. When he spoke again his voice was bitter. "I won't ever appreciate your kindness, though."

"I don't care."

"Stop it, Antonio. Just stop it. Stop with that nice-boy act. It's okay if you admit you were faking it the whole time. I'll believe you."

"Why is everything always so artificial to you?"

"Maybe because it _is_!" Lovino set his bottle down hard, and he must really have been drunk because Antonio had never heard him sound like this. "When has it ever been any different? When have I ever been a real person? I'm living the life I'm supposed to live, and I'm doing the things I'm supposed to do, and I'm thinking the things I'm supposed to think because that's what makes everyone happy! I need so much approval all the time – from directors, from fellow actors, from fans, from audiences. Hell, I even need approval from _you_ , only because you're associated with me!" He was breathing hard by now. "So don't ask me why my attitude is shit because it's not my fault. I can't do anything about it, and that's the fucking truth."

"You really hate acting, don't you?"

Lovino stilled entirely.

"What?"

"You hate acting," said Antonio, and this time it was a statement. "You perform because you have to, but you're always tired afterwards. You complain about your filming days and you never smile when you're there. You have trouble hiding your feelings around people, and sometimes you just don't want to. I've noticed, Lovino. You're only ever happy when no one expects you to be."

The Italian didn't say anything for a long moment, only stared into the depths of his glass as if he might drown in them.

"Well," he murmured, "at least I'm not alone, am I?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're not an actor either," observed Lovino matter-of-factly. "At least, I don't think so. Your friend made you tell him you loved him. How did that make you feel?"

"So you did hear everything," said Antonio after a moment. "It was... uncomfortable, I guess."

"Did you mean it?"

"... No."

"Then why the hell did you say it?" exclaimed Lovino.

"Because he wanted me to!"

"No," Lovino said slowly. "No. No, no, no. I thought you weren't the type and I was damn right. People like you, you'll lose more than you gain. I don't care how fucking much you try to reason yourself through it – later down the line you'll be wondering what you missed, when you look for that other half of yourself that isn't there."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"Maybe I am." Lovino shrugged, suddenly looking so forlorn and exhausted Antonio wanted to put his arms around him. "I – I really don't deserve you. I should never have hired you in the first place. Hell, I shouldn't have called at all."

"Don't say that, Lovino."

"It's true. Look, I'm dragging you down with me already. Do you really want to fall with someone like me?"

"Yes."

Lovino gazed at him, something bright kindling in his hazel eyes.

"You're crazy, you know that?"

"No, I'm not."

_Because I know how it is to fall, even if I don't know how to get back up. And if I fell with you, I could catch you, we could find some way to climb together._

His soft voice.

_Lovino, you hear me?_

His eyes shining.

_I could catch you. I could keep you from hurting._

His brilliant smile.

_If you'd let me, Lovino, I could be your wings._

_We could fly above the darkness, and everything would be all right again._

* * *

He awoke in his bed, dreary sunlight seeping in through the curtained window. For a moment he wondered whether last night had all been a dream; but the horrendous pounding of his head when he tried to think was evidence enough. At the very least, he'd managed to get roaring drunk, and he wasn't too proud of it now.

Antonio sat up to take stock of his surroundings. Dimly, through his headache, he registered cold on his chest and realized his shirt was missing. After some searching he found it on the table by the door and picked it up. It smelled faintly of alcohol and Lovino's cologne.

"Lovino?" he shouted, hurting his own ears, but there was no answer.

More than a little apprehensive now, he ventured out into the hall. The hotel room was completely silent, the parlor area empty; but the clock read 3 p.m., which meant Lovino was probably still at work. Just to make sure, Antonio peeked into his room: the Italian's belongings were still there, as haphazardly arranged as before.

He decided he needed an aspirin before anything else. At least the bathroom was empty too; Antonio didn't know what he would have done if Lovino had been there, of all places.

As he reached for the cabinet door, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and stopped short.

His hair was a complete mess, brown curls ricocheting off his head as if someone had repeatedly run his hands through them. His face was flushed, his mouth painfully red; he touched it and found it mildly swollen. And upon further, closer inspection, he discovered two small dark bruises around the base of his neck.

There was only one thing that could have happened last night.

"Oh, _shit._ "


	10. count to ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The struggles of the lonely, the lonely and confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring lines from Before Sunrise, but it's super obvious which ones they are. Just for clarity's sake, though, I do not own either that or Hetalia.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your support so far! It really keeps me going and I'm sorry for the slow updates.

"Have you ever heard that as couples get older, they lose the ability to hear each other?"

Lovino let the words sink in and tried to compose himself for the twelfth time that day. It wasn't easy; he knew those were Celine's words, and he also knew that Celine had breathed her last a week ago—coincidentally enough, the moment they'd first started filming.

Now it was Bella opposite him in the train car seat, smiling coyly at him over her coffee cup. Bella sweeping the room with her gaze as though everything in it, including Lovino, belonged to her. Bella kicking him under the table every so often, annoyingly and with a little more vengeance every time Lovino made a mistake. He liked to think that his mistakes, in turn, annoyed her even more.

But if only Jesse hadn't died on them too.

"Really?" said Lovino, remembering at the last minute to make it a question. Bella's smile shrank somewhat—the distaste must have gotten to her at last—and she shifted forward ever so slightly, so that her entire leg now brushed his.

"Supposedly," she went on as though nothing had happened, "men lose their ability to hear higher-pitched sounds. And women eventually lose hearing on the lower end. I guess they sort of nullify each other or something."

Well, that would certainly explain a lot of things between them.

Lovino, forced to glance at her face, regretted it almost immediately. Even here, even now, he could only recall another set of green eyes, almost exactly the same shade, yet so different in the emotions that rested behind them. Those green eyes that, only yesterday night, had met his own with such softness and affection. But of course Lovino, being Lovino, had gone and messed things up.

And now Antonio might never see him the same way again.

"Cut! Cut! Oh my God, cut!"

Alfred leapt out of his chair and rushed over, scattering the bewildered cameramen and women around Lovino and Bella's table. Within seconds their corner of the train car had emptied. Bella also made to leave—out of mock consideration only, Lovino was sure—but Alfred had already arrived and she sat back down right away.

Silently, Lovino braced himself for an angry onslaught.

It never came.

"Lovino," said Alfred, "what's wrong?"

He was gripping the table edge rather tightly, his knuckles turning white, and slowly Lovino looked up at him. Against all odds, Alfred actually appeared concerned.

"Nothing," Lovino heard himself say. "Nothing's wrong."

Alfred's frown only deepened. "You took much longer to get in character today, and when you finally did, you started forgetting all your lines. Now you just look miserable. This isn't like you, Lovino."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I think he's just tired, Director," interrupted Bella, and they both turned to her—one in surprise, the other in resignation. "Aren't we all? Today wasn't my best day either. Couldn't we just pick this up tomorrow?"

She didn't sound one bit like her usual preppy self, and Lovino could tell Alfred had noticed.

"Well," he decided finally, "I suppose I could make an exception. With both of you in this state I don't see how we can continue, anyway. I'll send everybody home right now to catch up on sleep, but I expect you here at six tomorrow morning, refreshed and ready to go. Agreed?"

"Agreed," echoed Bella, somehow appearing tired and dedicated all at once. "Thank you, Director."

"No problem. But remember, only this once, since you both look like you could use the rest. Lovino especially."

Bella nudged Lovino hard with her foot.

"Thank you," said Lovino automatically.

"Don't mention it." Alfred shot him a sympathetic, if baffled smile and let go of the table. "I might not know what's going on, and you definitely don't have to tell me—but if there's anything I can help with, I'd be happy to. Feel better, okay?"

"I will. I'll work harder tomorrow. Thanks, Alfred."

He was out the door and halfway down the train car steps by the time Alfred left to find the others. Only five p.m., and night had already fallen on the quiet, deserted street corner they'd sectioned off for their filming endeavors. He walked along the pavement in silence. How sad that even their train car scene couldn't be on a real train, only a borrowed two-car set; though that would be a lot of money after all, and most of the movie's original budget had gone towards Bella and Lovino. But were they really worth that much?

He'd never know.

The snow had started again, tiny icy crystals settling in his hair and burning pinpricks in his skin, and absently he put on his coat and gloves, ignoring his hat. He gazed up into the darkening clouds and let the cold air batter his face. It sobered him, if nothing else, and he didn't want to move.

He didn't want to go back. He didn't want to return to the betrayed look in Antonio's eyes, didn't want to hear the quiet hurt in his voice, since that would cement the reality he didn't want to face. So he had run. Yet he knew of nowhere else to go but back, nothing else to do but accept.

And he couldn't do it; he couldn't do anything. So what if he was Lovino Vargas?

Vargas was a coward.

He knew it better than anyone else.

"Lovino!"

Of course it would be Bella. He stopped where he was, but didn't turn to meet her. When Bella caught up she grabbed his arm and went around to face him, and for once Lovino was too tired to pull away.

"Lovino," she said again, her voice muted by the force of the wind. Her blonde curls were level with his shoulders, but her eyes met his squarely. Something like concern and understanding flashed within them. "Talk to me, Lovino. What—"

"—is wrong?" he finished for her, then laughed. "Why does everyone always ask me that? Do you really expect an answer, Bella?"

Bella stared at him, her mouth open slightly, and he realized with a little shock that all her haughtiness from before had gone, all her fake airs, as if they had never been there in the first place. Without her standard intense makeover, unnecessary for a character like Celine, she looked like a normal girl again—a normal girl talking to a normal guy, expressing normal concern like a normal friend. Had they ever been friends, even? He couldn't remember.

"Go on home now," he said, not unkindly. "It's late. I don't have a car and you don't want to take a taxi, alone or with me. Get Alfred to drive you home or something."

"I'm not going anywhere until you answer me. As Lovino Vargas. Because right now this isn't him."

Lovino laughed bitterly.

"There's a difference?"

With a cry, Bella seized his shoulders and shook him as hard as she could. He didn't budge. "Get out of your shell, Lovino! Get the hell _out_!"

"I don't know what you mean by 'shell.'" As soon as she tired, Lovino removed her hands. "You need to get out of yours, Bella. I don't remember you having the right to care about me."

"Because you never gave me that right!"

The same old argument.

"You didn't deserve it."

"It doesn't matter! I cared about you anyway, but you couldn't tell real from fake, and all you did was hurt me!"

She fell silent for a moment, flushed and breathless, and Lovino was unmoved.

"Then that makes two of us, doesn't it? The road only gets worse from here on out, Bella. So you might as well leave while you can—go back to your handsome Belgian fiancé, get married, the whole fucking deal—"

" _He never was my fiancé_!" shrieked Bella, with sudden fury and desperation. "You don't understand! _It wasn't my ring_!"

"And it wasn't his, and it wasn't mine, and the whole world's to blame." Lovino took a step back, put his hands up. "The battle's over and done with, Bella, there's no point anymore. What in the world do you want me to _do_?"

"I want you to care again!" screamed Bella, her voice breaking. "To believe me and protect me, instead of beating me down like everyone else! Why is that so much to ask? Why do _I_ always have to read between the lines, while you just sit there and tell me I'm not good enough?"

"I never did that."

"Yes you did! You're doing it right now, and you don't seem to know I have feelings! You're not the only one tired of pretending, Lovino. I just wanted to be your girlfriend. But I was always just your trophy, wasn't I? _Wasn't I_?"

" _Stop it, Bella_!"

"I _won't_!" She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and drew back. Her voice lowered unwillingly. "You know, Lovino, we were happy once. Just the two of us. It didn't have to end like this at all. Why did you do it, Lovino?"

"There's only so much a person can take," said Lovino, quietly. "And I've already had enough."

Bella grabbed his face and pulled him down, kissing him hard. Her lips were cold against his, but he knew them, recognized their touch; the countless times they'd kissed, all those months ago, came back to him. That movie one when he'd leaned over to peck her cheek during a cute scene, but she'd turned to say something and met his mouth instead. That one in the car after her week-long Belgium trip, when he'd missed her so much he'd made out with her right then, not even waiting to get home first. And that other one, and that _other_ one, and _that other one_... She was kissing him like that. She remembered still, and wanted it back. But he could only feel nauseous standing there, frozen and cold in her arms.

"I love you, Lovino."

She'd pulled away just enough to gaze up at him, eyes bright and fragile and hopeful, like the young innocent girl she'd never been and probably never would be, ever. Lovino wasn't blind; he could see it all, he could marvel, he could go back to the way things were, to the dream they had once been—but it had all come too late. It didn't matter anymore.

And so he admitted his own truth, the truth he'd been running from ever since he'd looked it in the eye.

The truth he could no longer escape.

"I love Antonio."

* * *

Even as Bella stared him down with heartbreak in her eyes, even as Bella finally turned and walked quietly away, a lone small figure in the snow—even then, even then he felt nothing. It was only after she had vanished some minutes later that the guilt finally rose up in his throat, bitter and angry and wailing, and he sank down to the ground and put his head in his hands.

* * *

First, second, third.

Fourth.

One floor after another, one flight after another. His every footstep echoing on the stairs like a reverberating memory he wanted to forget. It didn't matter that he was cold and tired; he had to do this. He needed to. He needed a little more time to find the courageous part of himself.

Still, Lovino soon found himself standing before the door, silent and completely unprepared.

He didn't knock right away, just stayed where he was and listened for a moment. But nothing sounded beyond the door; Antonio could be awake, Antonio could be packing, Antonio could have left without him and Lovino wouldn't know.

In fact, he fully expected it.

So of course he did a double take when the door opened to greet him with Antonio's face. But he had never been more thankful to be wrong.

"Lovino," breathed the Spaniard, and then he, too, had nothing more to say.

They both stood there for a minute, facing each other, each on opposite sides of the door. What appeared to be a trash bag fell from Antonio's hand onto the ground, landing with a loud rustle. There was no other sound. Antonio simply stared at Lovino for what seemed like an age, eyes and mouth adorably wide open.

"Lovino, you're back," he managed finally, as though he couldn't believe his own eyes alone. "I... I was waiting for you."

That same gentle, unaccusing voice. Lovino didn't know why his heart raced when he heard it. Dimly he registered an _I'm sorry_ quickly climbing to the tip of its tongue; but it stopped there, unable to exit, even as he opened his mouth to say it.

"Antonio," he blurted instead, "can we talk? Inside?"

Impossibly, Antonio's eyes grew even rounder.

"Oh—I—yeah. Yeah, of course. I was just, uh, taking out the trash." He hefted the plastic bag in his hand again, and Lovino glanced somberly at it. "I'll be right back, I promise."

He headed down the hall, possibly going for the stairs, and Lovino briefly watched his retreating form before letting out an involuntary sigh. Then he went inside, threw his coat on the rack and sank down tiredly on the couch, his head in his hands.

"Lovino... did something happen while you were filming?"

He glanced up. Antonio's worried, clueless, wonderful face met his eyes, and for a second he wanted nothing more than to cup that face with his hands and kiss it hard. But he didn't. Instead he said, "Please, just sit down."

Antonio did so. Across from him, not beside him; Lovino hadn't thought he would ever have to miss the former. The Spaniard's expression, though slightly nervous, still held some resolution to it, so Lovino barreled on.

"I'm sorry about yesterday night."

All preparedness vanished from Antonio's face, replaced speedily with panic as he remembered. "I—uh—yeah. Well. I—I mean, we can put it behind us, can't we?" He looked about ready to run away. "You're still my employer and I'm still your employee so—"

"Antonio, don't—"

The Spaniard shifted in his seat, and Lovino suddenly found himself staring at two prominent dark marks on Antonio's neck, barely hidden by his collar. His breath caught in his throat.

"Shit, Antonio... did I _bite_ you?"

Antonio went very still, a heavy red flush creeping up his cheeks. It took him a long moment to answer properly. "I—I don't remember. These were just there when I woke up, and—"

"Oh. Oh my God." Lovino ran his hands wildly through his hair. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't really have—not like Natalya— " _Dio santo, che cosa diavolo ho fatto? Sono una persona orribile, un bastardo_ —"

"Lovino!"

Hands gripping his shoulders, forcing him to stop in his tracks. He hadn't realized he'd gotten up and started pacing the room until he was actually doing it. Antonio still held onto him, the bewildered but resolute expression back in his eyes again.

"Lovino, stop," he said, almost pleadingly. "Don't beat yourself up. You weren't the only one drunk last night."

"But I was the one who—"

"No." Antonio's face was red again, but he seemed a lot less confused now. "I... uh, you know, I don't feel any different, physically. So we probably didn't go that far."

Lovino could have passed out with relief then and there. But that still didn't preclude the obvious question.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

The Spaniard paused at that, his eyes softening.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because of what I did. You should be angry. Why aren't you angry?"

Antonio's arms around him. His face pressed against the Spaniard's shoulder, feeling his warmth.

"I don't know why," Antonio said softly, so close to his ear, "but I'm not really angry. I would've been, but... I know it wasn't entirely your fault. So I forgive you. I don't think it's possible not to."

The Italian sucked in air and thanked the heavens above that Antonio couldn't see the burning of his face. It hadn't happened in such a long time. Slowly, hesitantly, he allowed his arms to reach up around Antonio's back, so solid and warm, so strong and secure. Was this how it felt to be in love? This dancing feeling in his chest, this tender pace to his heartbeat, that made him want to press his lips to Antonio's and stay that way forever?

It had been so long. So long. And he wanted this so badly.

But when he gazed up, by some cruel twist of fate, he saw Bella again—Bella screaming at him, Bella quiet and defeated, Bella walking away with unshed tears in her eyes. Such a strong, unapologetic young woman, reduced to this. All because of Lovino.

And Antonio—what of quiet, sweet, loving Antonio?

Before he knew it he had taken a step back, breaking the circle of Antonio's embrace and the moment of possibility all at once. Antonio simply stood there, too far away now, the previous startled blankness returning to his eyes.

"Lovino?" he whispered. And Lovino could no longer look properly at him.

"We... uh, we need to change hotel rooms. I forgot. It's getting late—go pack your stuff and help me after."

Antonio did so, working quietly the whole time. Lovino would have been lying if he claimed the silence didn't hurt any.

* * *

" _Pronto_? Oh, Lovino, it's you! What's wrong with your voice?"

"Nothing," mumbled Lovino, his face half-buried in a feather pillow. It was much softer than the ones from their old hotel, and that was all he wanted to think about. He kept his eyes closed. "What's wrong with _you_? Your voice sounds way too happy."

"Oh, Lovi. Did you have a bad day at work again?"

"No."

"Come on, tell me what's wrong. I'm always here for you!"

That last part wasn't strictly true. Feliciano hadn't been there when Lovino was living with his father—but then again, his mother and Nonno hadn't been either. Feliciano also hadn't been there when Lovino had made his big debut; Lovino had had to find him and physically bring him over to the U.S., protests notwithstanding. And right now was no exception; Feliciano still couldn't be there with him. In spirit maybe, but it wasn't the same. For all he knew he could have been interrupting Feli's secret quiet time with Ludwig Beilschmidt.

Lovino decided not to mention it and went on.

"Has anyone tried to contact you today?" he said abruptly. Some of the enthusiasm to Feliciano's breathing faded.

"Lovi, you ask that every time! Is that all you called about? I'm disappointed in you."

"Just answer me, Feli. Yes or no?"

Feliciano let out a huff. "No. Are you happy now?"

"Of course not. You should still be getting regular calls and messages and everything. That's _normal_."

"Well, I'm glad I haven't, since that means I get a little more time to be myself." His brother sounded displeased now—never a good sign. "Why is that such a big deal?"

"Someone could be onto us."

"You worry so much about that, Lovi. Can't you ask how _I'm_ doing for a change?"

"Obviously not, since I'm trying to make sure we're not in danger or anything."

"Okay." Feliciano took a breath. "Lovi, please just tell me. Did something happen or didn't it? I don't want to argue like last time."

"Nothing. Fucking. Happened." Lovino rolled onto his back and glared at the sloping ceiling, willing his thoughts to stay in one place. He couldn't explain his own anger. "So asking normal questions makes me an insensitive prick. Fine. Did you do anything with Ludwig, then?"

A long silence. Finally Feliciano spoke. "Actually, I did! We had a lot of fun. We went on plenty of dates while you were gone, and I only tried to kiss him once at the movies because I didn't want to be too forward. But it was great! I like him even more now, and I think he even likes me back!"

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Of course I am!" Feli laughed, his voice sounding off. "You told me not to live a lie, remember? So I told him who I really was, and he was fine with it! Maybe we'll get married soon! Can you believe it?"

"Feliciano _Vargas_ , you—"

"What? What did I do? Does being happy make me an 'insensitive prick' now?"

Lovino tried his best not to crush the phone into tiny pieces. "Yes it fucking does, Feliciano, if you put your happiness above everyone else's!"

"Wow, Lovi, that actually sounds a lot like you!"

"It does, doesn't it. How about we switch places again, then? I feel like being happy back home. You can come here and bring Ludwig with you. Win-win, right?"

"Oh yes, definitely. Well, I'll start getting ready now. Talk to you later, Lovi!"

A click, and the line went dead.

Lovino stared at his phone, willing himself to calm down, then let loose a loud yell and flung it from him. He fully expected it to crash and shatter against the wall; but five seconds later, long after he'd fallen back onto the bed, he heard nothing. He lifted his head and saw Antonio at the door, holding the phone in his hands.

"Uh, Lovino," said the Spaniard in a small voice. He sounded pained. "Your phone."

Lovino lay down again.

"Throw it away."

"I can't do that, Lovino."

"All right then, just put it down somewhere. Not next to me, or I might break it."

Antonio carefully set the phone down on a nearby table, far enough from Lovino that it wouldn't come to harm. He retreated to the door again. "I'll get you something to drink, Lovino."

"Don't bother."

But Antonio had gone, and for a split second Lovino almost thought he'd bring alcohol. A wild hope; the Spaniard was smarter than that, knowing what had happened recently. Sure enough, when Antonio came back, all he had in his hand was a glass of water.

"Here, Lovino," he said, handing it over and waiting for the Italian to drink. The water was cold, which Lovino hadn't expected, but it had a miraculous calming effect on him all the same.

"Thanks," Lovino muttered unwillingly, avoiding the Spaniard's eyes. "You can go to sleep now."

"I'm not tired," said Antonio quietly. "Do you... want to talk, Lovino?"

 _Yes_ , Lovino wanted to say. _Yes, of course I do. Why wouldn't I, when you always listen so willingly?_

Instead he said, "It's fine. I just want to be alone for a while."

Antonio's eyes darted briefly across Lovino's face, as though searching for something there, but his expression gave no indication of whether he'd found it. "All right, I'll step out for a bit. Is there anything else you need, Lovino?"

"No."

"So... tomorrow morning at four-thirty, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll keep that in mind." Antonio went to the door again. "I need to take care of something, but I'll be back in a bit. Goodnight, Lovino."

"Goodnight."

The Spaniard stepped outside and gently closed the door behind him. Lovino listened as his footsteps grew progressively quieter. Then silence. But it wasn't the peaceful kind, and Lovino wasn't tired either.

He sat up and glanced around the solitary room.

Just like before, luck had not been on their side. Of course a suite was somewhat better than the badly heated, dusty old room they had just moved in from; but the downside was rooms like these, with two beds in one and therefore much less privacy. Or more awkwardness, however one chose to look at it. Yet again they hadn't had a choice.

Lovino supposed, at the very least, that no one could track them down for now.

Antonio's bed sat at the far left of the room, still neatly made and untouched, his suitcase closed underneath it. The bedside table was similarly sparse, holding only a weatherbeaten alarm clock, a half-empty water bottle, and the hotel-provided lamp. Halfway behind the lamp stood a single, flimsy brown picture frame, and Lovino reached out to pick it up.

The picture was fairly simple, with a background of pastel-blue sky and ankle-length grass. A woman in her late twenties, with stern features and a pale pink dress, held the shoulders of a small, gentler-looking boy in front of her. They both had the same green eyes and smile, and Lovino had no doubt that this was Antonio and his mother. The young Antonio couldn't be over ten, and his shirt was slightly soiled with grass stains. But he still looked strikingly happy, a stark contrast from his subdued self now.

Lovino regarded them awhile longer, a strange feeling rising in his chest. Antonio had always looked vaguely sad when asked about his family, or his childhood in Spain. And his father wasn't in the picture. Did he have a father at all? But during his job interview Antonio had said he didn't have parents.

Suddenly, Lovino felt like he'd seen something he shouldn't have, and quickly set the picture frame back on the table.

He retreated to his bed, found his wallet and went through the pockets one by one. Two pictures fell out, their edges faded and going brown, and he smoothed them out on the sheets to inspect them.

The first, if he didn't look closely, could have been mistaken for himself. But it was Feli at twenty-five, posing in his artist's apron with colors splashed all over it, standing in front of a highly detailed painting of the Grand Canal. Slivers of cloud and sun and everything. Lovino still remembered the title— _Venezia at Sunrise_. Feliciano had insisted it was sunrise; but Lovino had argued it looked just as much a sunset, and finally Feliciano concluded it could be seen both ways. That was the first photo Lovino had ever received of his brother, almost three decades after their separation.

The second was the only photo he had of their entire family. There were his mother and father, shoulder-to-shoulder, each with a baby boy in their arms. Despite the somber grey background they were smiling, large genuinely happy smiles, like nothing could go wrong with all four of them together. Lovino liked to linger upon his mother's face the most; she had the softest gaze, the gentlest smile, the rosiest cheeks and the most beautiful curling hair. Father didn't look as serious as Lovino remembered, but the resemblance was there; proud dark eyes, long sharp nose, high cheekbones. Lovino had them all. Feliciano did too, to an extent, but he also had the same carefree, kind air of their mother. Only him.

Lovino, when he'd first known about Feli, had thought it unfair that his twin received the best of everything. But after meeting Feli for the first time he'd changed his mind. Feli was his only remaining connection to his mother.

Feli was all he had left.

Lovino stared at the pictures one more time, searing them again into his memory, then swept them up and stuffed them back into his wallet. He stood up, went over to the table where Antonio had put down his phone, and picked it up to type out a message.

_I'm sorry, Feli._

He waited listlessly awhile, not expecting much of a response. A minute passed, and then his phone buzzed in his hand.

_It's okay._

Lovino gazed down at the words, blinking a little. His phone buzzed again.

"Feli?"

"Si, it's me," said his brother quietly. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Not really. I did have a bad day today. I shouldn't have taken it out on you, Feli."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I've been doing this a lot, haven't I?"

"Come on, Lovi. You're not the only one who gets mad. I'm just as much to blame." Feliciano let out a sigh. "Anyway, let's forget it. Tell me what went wrong! I'll tell you about my day too and we can find a way out of this together. Remember, Lovi, no matter what happens I've got your back, okay?"

Lovino blinked harder.

"You're a good brother, Feli. No, you're the best."

"You're my only brother," was Feli's simple reply. "Where would I be without you?"

* * *

He awoke some time later to the sound of the door opening, and hushed footsteps making their way to the bed on the left. It was Antonio, of course; Lovino watched from the safety of his dark corner as the Spaniard turned on the lamp and went to the closet. He had to avert his eyes then, while Antonio changed out of his day clothes and into pajamas.

When Antonio finished he returned to his bed, reaching underneath for his suitcase. From this he removed a stack of three thin blue notebooks, tied with a rubber band, and took out the topmost one. Then he found a pen, climbed into bed, turned to a page near the end and started scribbling something down.

Lovino couldn't tear his eyes away.

Such concentration, passion, and dedication in Antonio's eyes. Such tenderness in the way he gazed at the paper. As if he stood under a sky full of stars, gently picking out constellations, describing them for the world to see. And the pen moved as if by magic, Antonio's magic, translating his thoughts into tangible ink.

At one point Antonio paused and glanced over to his right, directly at Lovino. Hurriedly the Italian shut his eyes, his heart beating wildly. He was almost sure Antonio could hear it. But the Spaniard didn't make a sound, didn't call out Lovino's name; he just stayed still for a second, before letting out a slow breath, and the scratch of pen on paper resumed.

Lovino opened his eyes again, this time only halfway, and watched Antonio working until he himself grew tired. Even then, even when he closed his eyes and began to fall asleep, he saw the same entrancing image there, dancing through his thoughts and drawing him closer, closer.

And he didn't see the lamp turn off an hour later, or Antonio smiling gently at him in the darkness.


End file.
